


Like Broken Glass

by RiaRose



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, M/M, Men Crying, POV Clint Barton, Protective Clint Barton, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Team as Family, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22234174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaRose/pseuds/RiaRose
Summary: -"Clint?" The voice that answered him nearly jolted his heart into stopping."Oh my God," Clint rushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of the man hidden on the floor. "Oh my God, Tony!" So many days, weeks, and hours searching for him with nothing but dead end after dead end, and there he was! Clint felt his heart pounding against his chest, hope swelling within him. Alive! Tony was alive!There was a brief haunted look in the other man's eyes that gave way to a bright spark at seeing Clint. "Its you? It's for real, seriously you?" The book in Tony's hands dropped and clattered to the ground. It was then that Clint noticed that Tony was naked.ORWhen Tony disappears, the team is devastated. They will do whatever it takes to bring him home. On an off chance of a lead, Barton goes by himself to see if it pans out. It does, in the worst way possible.
Relationships: Non-Consensual Pairings
Comments: 135
Kudos: 179
Collections: Assassin Twins + Tony, Ultimate Favorites





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I know I don't need to say this, since it's in the warnings and tags, but this is a heavy story. Tony goes through it, badly. So does Clint, in a way. The rest of the team gets knocked over later on. I break them. And I'm not even ashamed. I don't pull punches, please, if you have a triggers, heed the warnings and read accordingly. I don't want to hurt anyone.
> 
> Don't fret, I'm a sucker for happy endings! Or at least hopeful endings. 
> 
> This takes place about a year after the first Avengers film and every film after that is considered AU in regards to this story. 
> 
> Much love to Tiff and Lan for their input, support, and unfailing understanding of my many typos and word vomit. I could not have done this without my Fic Whore and my Little Sparkle.
> 
> My amazing Lan created a wonderful cover photo for me! You can view it here: https://imgur.com/DPvVpzR

Prologue:  
" _Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass._ " -Anton Chekhov

It was deceptively warm for March, but even so, sitting on the top of Avengers Tower, Clint Barton felt a chill in the air. It could be because of the wind that whipped around him, but he was sure it was because exactly one month prior, Anthony Edward Stark has vanished into thin air.

Some thought he finally had enough. He had the money to do it, to rush away and disappear and still live the good life, and some thought his enemies and industrial competition at last caught up to him. The team knew better. Tony had fail-safes in place for the latter, and as for the first...well. His wallet, keys, his phone, and even the sneakers he had on that day still sat by the door of the penthouse, waiting for their owner to retrieve them. Projects were left unfinished, things Tony had put an importance on. A pro-bono green energy school bus; the brand new Starkpad 8 that was due out the next year; Clint's new arrows; Steve's new uniform...

Tony was not one to ever leave anything unfinished.

And then there was the blood on his bed. It wasn't much, but enough to let the other Avengers know: he didn't leave on his own.

They worked tirelessly, chasing any lead, following every clue, but still not a single trace of Tony was anywhere to be found.

"Hey." Clint's head snapped up at the intrusion into his thoughts. It was Natasha. She dropped next to him and slid her arm through his. "He's alive. I know it. And we'll find him."

"I don't see how," he said bitterly. "Fury has us on active duty again. He's given him up for dead."

"Fury's an asshole. But I don't think he's given up either. Clint, he's still sending leads, it's just..." she turned her palm up and gestured to the city around them. "The world doesn't stop just because Tony Stark goes missing."

"It feels like it should."

She smiled sadly. "How far we've come, huh?"

The corners of his lips curled upwards in a brief smile. "Hey, remember that time when we only worried about ourselves and each other before we got sucked into some dysfunctional family of superheroes?" She barked a laugh. "Ah, good times."

"You're an ass."

"You love it."

"Eh." She bumped his shoulder. "So while we are up here, sulking in the roof, want to explain why Bruce had to clean coffee grounds from the kitchen ceiling?"

He dropped his head. "Sorry about that. Man, I don't know, I have coffee everyday, right? But today, it fucking reminded of him so bad. It was like I could see him standing there, looking all disheveled like he only lets us see, drinking out of that stupid Spongebob mug and doing, I don't know, _something_ to piss off Cap. But then I realized he wasn't there. And it's because _we can't find him_!"

"We're all tired, Clint-"

"That's no excuse!"

She grabbed his face and turned it towards her, "I'm not saying it is! I'm saying we're tired. We're exhausted. And that's not our fault either! Clint, listen to me! None of us have slept properly since he disappeared. We haven't eaten right, we are running ourselves into an early grave. Give yourself some god damn leeway!"

He was quiet for a moment. "I can't. And you can't either. Neither can the others. Not until we find him, Nat. What's the use of fucking lying about it?" He stood up. "Come on, I should help Bruce clean up the coffee."

"Yeah, you should. And apologize to Jarvis, I think you scared him."

"Right, I'll get right on that." He chuckled, rolling his eyes. Sometimes, Nat saw right through him.

"We're not complete until he comes back. You don't think I know that, Clint?"

Clint groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, "Nat, I know that, okay? I know. I'm just..."

"Petulant?"

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

He made a face at her. "We just need to find him so we can all get some damn sleep." He said as he led her back inside. They were quiet as they rode the elevator down to the common room. When the doors opened, he spoke over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen, "I just need to know if he's okay. I want him home."

She opened her mouth to answer, but Bruce beat her to it. "We all do. Even the Other Guy." He handed Clint a mop and looked pointedly at the mess.

Steve sat at the counter, nursing his tea. Clint didn't think it was possible for the super-soldier, but there were bags under his eyes. He knew Thor was in the living room by the light flickering off the TV. The few moments they had to themselves, he watched Tony's favorite movies to cope.

"Do you think he's hurt?" Steve asked. "Do you think he's okay?" The innocence in his voice almost shattered Clint. God, that hurt to hear from Steve. But they were all worn down, rubbed weary like an over used step, after years of people trotting up and down, it starts to warp, cement eroding away, twisting it's once perfect geometric shape into something slumped and old.

Strange how they never felt overused until they lost one of their own. And it wasn't because of being a member down, it was because Tony, like that damned arc reactor in his chest, somehow shone a light upon them no matter how dark it got. He knew how to make them laugh, how to make them forget, even if just for a moment.

Outside, the moon was rising. Lonely in the sky and casting shadows upon the city.

Clint kicked at a few coffee grounds. They couldn't go on like this. They missed him. They were worried about him. They needed to find him before they all burst like dying stars, unable to handle the weight of not only being heroes, but the crushing reality that someone they loved was gone. It fucked with their heads, turning on anxieties they didn't know were there, and it smashed into their lives like a bulldozer.

He thought of all the people he had met in life who had lost loved ones. He hadn't felt that feeling in so long; he could barely remember it, but with Tony gone...the pressure in his chest never eased. He didn't know how they did it, how they got up each day and faced their lives minus one. How they managed to move on, become happy again. Be okay.

It made no sense to him. It made no sense to any of them.

They were stuck. And until Tony was home, they couldn't move, even if they tried to. Life was sludge and they barely got through it.

Clint never knew the true meaning of empty until that moment. And he wished beyond anything that he could step back into ignorance.

But the TV still flickered. And Steve still swirled his tea. Clint still got angry at stupid things and somehow, the world continued to revolved around the sun, despite it being so much darker with Tony Stark gone.

* * *

Please read and review! I'm trying to figure out the formatting of these websites, so please bear with me as I correct things.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hindsight is always 20/20. Just ask Clint Barton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not doing well with the formatting, apparently I'm too old to understand, haha! If everything goes according to schedule, I should be able to upload at least once a week.

Chapter One

The man in front of him looked too tanned to be so blond. Clint knew him from articles in the newspaper: Russell Davin. Cartel leader. Bastard. And his current captor. With hair almost white and eyes that looked dead. When he was unceremoniously dumped in front of him, his eyes are what caught the archer's attention first. Watery, almost pink, maybe once they were blue, but now they looked like dead fish. It was offsetting against the burnt skin.

And Davin spent far too much time not speaking and just looking at Clint. It made his skin crawl.

What sunk Clint's heart the most is that he took off without letting anyone know. Unless they were able to discern exactly what Clint had from the research on his desk, he was royally screwed. He knew scouring over the pictures with a magnifying glass was not something they would immediately jump to, and Clint cursed his recklessness of seeing what he saw and rushing off to confirm it. It was a rookie mistake. But then again, the whole team had been running on fumes, wrecked with worry, anxiety, and regret. None of them had been thinking clearly.

_"Davin has a new pet." The woman had said to her partner, as per usual ignoring the help which in this case was Clint disguised as a waiter. "He's rather beautiful, untamed, like Davin likes them. You've seen him." She smirked and lifted the glass Clint has just handed her to her lips. "You could say he's built like he's made of iron." She laughed then, and the man she was with chuckled in understanding._

_"So that's what happened to him. Davin has good tastes."_

It had taken every connection he had with the FBI to get the surveillance photos. Davin hadn't been in the country in two months. In fact, he had left the day after Tony disappeared. That was too much of a coincidence.

Clint was aware they were grasping at straws at this point. Their missing teammate was like a rather large mass suffocating them each day. He wasn't there, but in so many ways he was. Steve had said they would never stop looking for him, but as the days turned into weeks turned into months, hope was dwindling. So, when Clint overheard that conversation on a different retcon mission, he set to work right away. But he kept it to himself. Instilling false hope was dangerous. The woman may have meant someone else entirely, but the grainy figure being carried into Davin's personal jet looked too familiar. Clint needed to know for sure. It was only supposed to be surveillance. He wasn't supposed to get caught.

"You've arrived at a rather opportune time, Agent Barton." Davin finally said, after he seemed to have looked his fill. "I'd be worried about the other Avengers, but seeing as you're alone, and hearing from my sources that the others are busy with other things leads me to believe that they have no idea where you are." His voice was oily and slick.

Well, fuck. Clint said nothing. He kept his face blank, not wanting to reveal a single thing.

"You see," Davin spoke again, "we had an unfortunate incident yesterday with my beautiful pet. His previous caretaker was getting too, how would you say, handsy." He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "That is not allowed, you understand. And being who you are, I don't think I'll have any issue with you trying to fuck my Luna."

 _Fuck his Luna?_ Clint was here to find Tony; that was his mission, but if someone else was being kept here instead, he wasn't about to leave them either. And if him being an Avenger meant this sick bastard thought he was trustworthy enough not to try to, ugh, fuck his pet, he'd use any in he could.

Finding Tony was a priority—always would be!-but leaving another innocent to this man wasn't an option. Tony would want him to help. It also didn't look like he had much of a choice at the moment.

"You know, Agent Barton, many would say that the most beautiful man in the world is your friend Steven." Clint's heart clenched at the mention of his friend, safe back in New York. "I would disagree. I know quite a few who would, actually." He paused, studying Clint's face again for a moment. "No, I believe the most beautiful man, the most beautiful _person_ , is my Luna. As beautiful as the moon. At once dark and light. I have always thought so, since the first time I saw him. I knew I had to have him. And I get what I want, Agent Barton. Do you understand?"

Clint sucked in a breath and nodded. His face still devoid of emotion. He knew he would not get away without answering.

"Juan here will dress you and let you know your duties. Do not disappoint me. The previous caretaker met his end rather amusingly." He flipped his hand nonchalantly, "I'd hate to have to kill one of earth's heroes and all that."

Still, Clint remained silent. He wasn't giving this prick any information if he could help it. But for one moment, he let his face show his loathing. Davin only smirked in response.

"Juan. Take him."

Rough hands grabbed Clint from behind, under his arms, and steered him. The man was easily 6'5 and obviously not one to trifle with. Clint went quietly. He took in every corridor in the estate, carefully studying windows, the landscape outside, anything that could help him when it was time to escape.

Juan pushed him into a room; it was the laundry, he noted. Racks of clothing lined the walls and four industrial strength washers and dryers hummed away at the other end.

"You will wear these. There are two sets, to be washed every night. Master is rather keen on cleanliness." It was a pair of beige linen pants and a white linen shirt. "Change now."

Not seeing much of a choice, Clint removed his uniform, his stomach turning at the way the man leered at him. When dressed, Juan handed him a pair of brown leather sandals.

"You are responsible for their upkeep. Now, follow me."

He wished he knew where they hid his weapons, wished fiercely that he was at least able to keep the small knife in his boot. But that lay in a discarded pile on the floor of the room they had just left. Pity. That was a gift from Natasha.

The corridor Juan led him down was just as long and massive as the others. The private island off the coast of South America lush with land and beauty and large enough to fit the estate, a landing strip, and a rush of vegetation. Clint saw the white sandy beaches through the windows and mulled over the irony of being captive in such a gorgeous place.

"Your duties are simple. You will feed him, bathe him, exercise him, prep him, and if needed, apply medical care. He is to be ready by 7:45 in the evening, Tuesdays through Saturday. Sundays no later than 11 in the morning. Mondays, he has off." Juan looked disappointed at that. "If needed, you will retrieve him after the fact." They stopped outside of a large double door, white, with intricate carvings and many, many locks. "Otherwise, you do not leave these rooms unless it is for his exercise or his required time in the sun. There is a pallet in there for you to sleep on." Keys, codes, combinations...Clint knew without asking that this Luna was caged in a way that made no mistakes. "There are cameras on the balcony and no way to climb down. Unless you fancy a fourth story drop onto rocks." He couldn't help it, Clint made a face at that. "Also, just so we're clear: his name is Luna. When these are closed you call him what you want. But if anyone else is around, you will refer to him as Luna. Beautiful Luna. Do you understand your duties?"

The archer nodded. And the doors were opened.

"Enjoy your stay." The slam that echoed behind him made Clint jump about a foot in the air, though he'd never admit it, and the sounds of the locks being applied turned his stomach sour.

In front of him was a large room, shaped like a giant Y. To the right of the fork, a bedroom: king-sized bed, vanity table, love-seat; and to the left a small library. Directly in front of him: a sitting area and wooden table, dressed in white with high-backed wooden chairs. At the center of the Y, another set of double doors stood open and Clint could see the edges of the bathroom. The room had an older air to it, clean, well kept, but classically styled and furnished in what looked like the 1950's Hollywood idea of what a beach estate should look like.

At first, Clint saw no one in the room.

"Is this a joke?" he growled under his breath, his jaw clenching and un-clenching in annoyance. How the fuck was he expected to care for someone—and ultimately save them!--if he couldn't see them? His sharp eyes glanced around the room once more, looking for any detail he may have missed in his first sweep across the space. He measured almost a full minute before movement on the floor by the bed caught his eye. It was a foot being pulled back behind the vanity. Someone was seated on the floor.

"Uhm, Hello?" his eyes narrowed at the surprised jerk of the foot. Whoever it was had let it shoot back out from behind the vanity in shock. "Hi, I'm Clint?" He didn't really mean for it to sound like question, but Nat had told him too many times to count that he was far too often unsure of his words when he wasn't facing down an assailant.

"Clint?" The voice that answered him nearly jolted his heart into stopping.

"Oh my God," Clint rushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of the man hidden on the floor. "Oh my God, Tony!" So many days, weeks, and hours searching for him with nothing but dead end after dead end, and there he was! Clint felt his heart pounding against his chest, hope swelling within him. Alive! Tony was alive!

There was a brief haunted look in the other man's eyes that gave way to a bright spark at seeing Clint. "Its you? It's for real, seriously you?" The book in Tony's hands dropped and clattered to the ground. It was then that Clint noticed Tony was naked.

"Jesus, what the fuck are they doing to you?" Tony was bound by gold: a solid gold choker on his neck with chains that attached to golden cuffs that fit snugly around his wrists. He was dismayed to see bruising along Tony's arms and neck, and even more horrified to see the shadows of hands around his hips. All at once, it made sense. And Clint's heart shattered at the thought.

His brain, trained as a spy, took in the rest of his friend's appearance quickly. He was tanner than usual-and that was saying something!-his olive skin turned a deep bronze, and along his arms, thighs, and abdomen, detailed brown markings he recognized as henna. They had shaved his face clean--and wasn't that jarring to see? Tony without his trademark goatee. On his upper arms were two more gold cuffs, though these were not chained to anything, and his toes each had a different yet individually elegant toe rings on them. His ankles were wrapped in several exquisite gold and diamond anklets.

What disturbed Clint most was the piercings. They had lined earrings up his earlobes, his nipples held gold hoops, a small diamond was placed in his nose, and his poor outtie belly button held a diamond and gold ring in it. Clint visibly grimaced when he saw the stud on his penis, it made him feel sick to think of that forced on him; Tony hated the idea of piercings on himself. He wasn't too keen on body modification to begin with; it was one of the reasons the arc reactor still bothered him.

Clint's eyes made their way back up to the reactor. The freaks had drawn henna around it, like it was part of the artwork and not something that kept Tony alive out of necessity.

"They like to decorate me." Tony said softly, in answer to Clint's once over. "Where are the others?"

Clint, for the first time in a long time, felt tears spring to his eyes. Tony thought this was a rescue mission. God, did he feel so incredibly stupid! Why in God's name had he not told the others? It could have been as simple as a text message, a note, fucking smoke signals! Anything! He looked down, ashamed at his irresponsibility. _Be truthful,_ Clint thought, _he deserves that much._ "I'm alone." He felt the gut punch of having to admit it. "I'm so sorry, Tones," _So unbelievably sorry!_ "I fucked up, dude."

Tony nodded curtly, the haunted look seeping back into his wide brown eyes. The silence settled around them for a moment, like dust after an earthquake, before Tony spoke again. "What happened?"

"We've been looking for you for so long, it was a long shot--there were so many!--but we went after every one; I was desperate to find anything that could lead us to you. Oh God, Tony, I screwed up, man, I truly fucked up. I never meant to be captured. And the others...I didn't tell them what I was doing. It was so, so stupid, Tones. I'm sorry, but we're alone." his mind grasped for anything to say to remove the look of despair in Tony's eyes, a joke to crack, something to say that wasn't apologies, or bad news delivered by one of the people Tony had faith in rescuing him. But his mind came up empty, like a glass already drunk turned upside down, the sad remains of his thought process dripping down the sides and falling to the floor, just waiting to be mopped up.

Tony swallowed. "Okay. Okay. Then you need to listen to me." Clint jerked at the serious tone.

"Tony?"

"No, you have to listen! They've made you my new caretaker, I can tell by the outfit. I should have noticed right away, but..." He trailed off and shook his head, returning to his patented 'listen to me' voice. "Do not, Clint are you listening? _Do not try to escape_."

"Tony!"

"No, it's my turn to speak!" Tony sounded panicked, his eyes darted around the room, as if waiting for someone to descend on them in an attack. "There is no way off this island that doesn't involve floating away as fish food. Do you hear me? I tried." Tony twisted so Clint could see his back, it was marred with white scars, recently healed. "This is what I got for trying. Twenty-five whips. They won't kill me. Davin is obsessed with me. But they will--pay attention here, buddy!-- _they will kill you_."

Clint didn't realize it, but he was holding his breath. He released it with a whoosh. "Tony, we have to get out of here."

"And we will. If you found me, the others will as well. But for right now, Clint, I'm serious here, for right now you do as they say. No matter what. You stay alive so we can leave this fucking island together. Capiche?" He paused. "I'm a fucking genius, Barton. You think I haven't done the math? It's impossible."

Clint licked his lips in worry, sitting back on his heels. "Are you sure?" Tony's intellect was second to none he knew. If a legitimate genius couldn't find a way off the island, what hope did someone like Clint have?

"I'm fucking positive. I told you: they won't kill me. But yesterday," he shivered at a memory Clint could not for the life of him see, "Sam looked at me the wrong way and they fucking sliced his head off."

"Sam...Sam was your old caretaker?"

"Yes. And I got to watch as his head fell to the floor and got a front row seat from the balcony as they tossed him in the ocean." With this, Tony grabbed Clint's arms as best he could with his wrists shackled together. "I can't, I won't...I refuse to see them do that to you. Follow the rules. All of them."

"Fucking hell."

Tony looked away then. "It's not...I know it's asking a lot. But I need you, Clint. I'm counting on you as well. If it's not done right...fuck. Clint, it hurts so fucking bad."

Clint felt his stomach twist. "What do you mean?"

"What did they tell you? What did they say your duties were?"

"Uhm, feed you, bathe you, exercise you, prep-oh Jesus Christmas."

Tony gave him a pleading look. "I'm sorry. But if you don't, God..." he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. The chains clanked quietly.

"No, no, Tony, you listen now. I'll do whatever it takes to make it easier on you. To make sure you don't hurt as much." _To make sure they don't hurt you so badly when they rape you that you can never be fully whole again_. Saying that word, he just didn't think he could do it out loud. Even thinking it set his teeth on edge.

Tony nodded, letting his hands drop. He glanced at the clock. "It's 5:30." He said softly. "Marietta will be in with dinner very soon. Afterwards..."He took a deep breath. "Afterwards, I need to bathe and you...you have to prep me." Tony wiped at his eyes and Clint pretended not to notice. "They're very punctual." He said the last with a bitter resentment to his voice.

"Okay, when the time comes, just, you know, walk me through it."

Another nod. "Clint," Tony started softly, "I'm glad it's you." He dropped his eyes. "I miss all of you so much. I'm sorry they killed Sam, he was a nice guy, but I'm happier to see you." His eyes lifted, they were shining with his tears and as Clint watched, they slowly started to roll down his cheeks. "We're going to get out of here. I have to remember that. We're going to get home and everything is going to be okay, right? It's all going to be perfectly fine. Tell me, please," Tony grabbed Clint's hands again, this time, much tighter than before. The archer could feel the desperation radiate through to his own body. "Tell me that it's all going to be all right." The pleading in Tony's voice twisted something deep inside Clint. It hurt to move for a moment, his chest felt like it was compressing in on itself.

He found his own breath hitching. The pain he saw on the genius' face was devastating. Just the idea that Tony was being kept as a pet, forcefully raped night after night...It infuriated him and it killed him inside. How could he tell Tony that everything was going to be okay when he could already tell that his friend was changed from it? How could he lie and act like everything would go back to normal when Tony looked so haunted. There was no defiance left, just sagging acceptance to being used as a monster's sex toy.

But Clint had to remind himself that it had been two months. Lesser men would have broken already. At least Tony still had hope.

"Yeah, man," Clint forced himself to smile, "we're going to be just fine, Tones. You'll see. Better start thinking of what movie you want—Hey! Natasha might even let you pick two. You could force her to watch some cheesy ass crap, a chick-flick or something, like Notting Hill. You love that movie!" He felt almost cruel; it was like he was lying to Tony. But Clint would anything for his team. They knew that, he knew that... He would do anything to keep Tony from completely falling apart on him. He would do it for all of them, and wasn't that just peachy? A year ago, Clint would have never thought he would do anything for anyone else, except for maybe Natasha.

"Think Steve will make his popcorn?" Tony's smile was as haunted as his eyes. "You .know, the one with the chocolate drizzle on it?"

"Hell yeah. And Bruce will make empanadas. The kind you like, with those green chilies. You know he can't say no to you when you ask for his cooking!" Tony leaned forward then, moving his body so he could curl up against Clint's chest, desperate for contact that didn't hurt him. Clint sat back on his bottom, slowly wrapping his arms around the smaller man and pressing his head into Tony's shoulder. He was surprised at how cold Tony's skin felt. With his face hidden, he let a few tears leak out. Just a few, to release some of the anguish that was pressing in his mind.

Tony lay quietly against his chest for a few minutes, listening to Clint's heartbeat. He shuddered, causing the archer to hold him tighter, but it was all right: Clint wouldn't hurt him. He knew that. Not like they did. Clint would keep him safe...safe like home. The tower, The common room, his teammates taking up space in his life in the best way. Safe like that.

When he spoke again, his voice was cracked and broken. "I want to go home."

Clint closed his eyes. "I know, Tony. I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tony B-R-O-K-E-N! Just how I like him because I get to put him back together again. It starts getting heavier from here on out, but I hope you all enjoy! Please let me know by reviewing!


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With 7:45 nearing, Clint has to prepare Tony for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rather detailed in what Clint has to do to prepare Tony, please use caution when reading.
> 
> Much thanks again to Lan and Tiff, my Little Sparkle and my Fic Whore. You two are indispensable!

Clint didn't realize just how hungry he was until the door opened and the smell of food accosted him. Had it really been more than a day since he last ate? He knew he had gone longer, had to in some situations, but something about the emotional fuckery he was dealing with made him ravenous.

  
He was still holding the genius when the woman Tony had called Marietta entered, pushing a silver cart. On it sat two trays, a decanter, two glass cups, and silverware. She made quick work of setting the table, barely pausing to glance at Clint as Tony finally pulled away from him and stood.

  
"Please," Tony spoke, his head low and his body submissive, "tell the master I am thankful for this meal."

  
"I will." Clint heard a Brazilian accent. The woman, fifties, graying hair, short but sturdy, looked up at Tony, her face displaying an emotion Clint couldn't quite catch. "Will you be needing anything else, Beautiful Luna?"  
  


It sounded rehearsed and the archer realized this exchange was probably the same every time she brought in meals. Clint would go as far as to guess the other...servants...slaves? were forced to refer to Tony as Beautiful Luna as well. It honestly sickened him, the extent Davin had gone.  
  


"No, ma'am. I need no more than what my master has thus provided me."  
  


Clint almost mocked gagged, would have too, if the implication of how orchestrated this was didn't make him legitimately feel like vomiting. It was a script. Tony didn't talk like that. No one spoke like that.  
  


She turned her attention to Clint. "For you to learn, Caretaker, this is where you say: 'Our master provides and cares for Beautiful Luna.'" She looked at him expectantly.  
  


"Oh, uh...Our master provides and cares for Beautiful Luna."  
  


"Good. Eat well. Rest. Master looks forward to your company." She bowed low and backed out of the room.  
  


"What the actual fuck," Clint whispered.  
  


Tony was already sitting at the table. "Just eat, Barton," and it sounded so much like the old Tony that Clint had to gather himself quickly before his eyes watered again.  
  


_'Not cool, Clint. Keep it together, man. You were trained for shit like this. It shouldn't be affecting you.'_ But it did bother him. It bothered him so immensely because this was Tony fucking Stark. Not just genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, not just Iron Man, but his friend.  
  


So Clint sat. Marietta had already lifted the covers off the dishes, and in front of him was some species of fish, perfectly cooked, and steamed vegetables. The decanter held mineral water only, and two small fruit tarts sat on dainty plates next to their salad bowls.  
  


"Okay, bro, listen, I don't remember the last time I ate healthy shit like this, my body may reject it." Clint was hoping to coax a smile out of Tony. It worked. The genius' lips spread in a grin, and he gave a light chuckle. Even if it didn't fully reach his eyes, it was a start.  
  


Tony made a face, one so familiar it almost hurt. He quirked his mouth and raised his eyebrows, telltale sarcastic Tony. "Gotta keep Beautiful Luna healthy."  
  


It wasn't difficult to see that Tony was doing it for Clint, to see him at ease with the situation. And it was so Tony it was almost laughable.  
  


"What's with the script, dude?"  
  


Tony sighed and gave a shrug. "He's a control freak. And not in the haha Steve, please remove the stick from your ass kind." Mentioning his captain made him pull a quick frown, the worry pinching his face. But he recovered fast, doing his best, Clint surmised, at putting on a show to alleviate his concerns. "I don't know if it's a game to him, I don't really know anything. But he has these scripts we have to use, even when no one else is present. And he strikes so much fucking fear...The chef is really good though. You should eat." With that, Tony raised his shackled hands and lifted his fork. "It's a little awkward," he gestured, "but when have you ever seen me not figure out a solution."  
  


_'Right now.'_ Clint thought, _'this fuck head somehow bested you. Bested me.'_ But wisely, he didn't say that. That type of honesty, he knew, would only hurt Tony more in the long run. "That's an annoying sound." He answered instead, meaning the soft clunking of the chains.  
  


"Let's face it, I've made more annoying noises in the year you've known me." Tony gave him a pointed look and Clint realized for the first time just how rehearsed Tony's reactions were. Not just at the estate, but in general. How much of a show did he put on for them? How often did he hide himself to make everyone think he was okay? "You get used to it."  
  


"Right. Any other Shakespearean lines I need to memorize?"  
  


"A few," Tony answered. "But you get some leeway as you learn them. It's not like Davin is always around to hear them."

  
"And that Beautiful Luna shit, is he for real, man?" Clint finally picked up his fork and speared a carrot.  
  


"Unfortunately." Tony looked down, focusing on his meal. "I hate it. He calls me his moon. Or his beautiful Italian star. Like, get with it, buddy, moon or stars. Can't be both."  
  


Clint paused, considering. "Exactly how obsessed is he with you?"  
  


At that, Tony scoffed. "You have no idea. I'd say he practically worships me if he didn't, you know, control every fucking thing I do and pass me around to his criminal besties like I was nothing more than an inflatable doll bought at a sex shop at three in the morning."  
  


Unable to stop it, Clint grimaced. "So, it's not just him, then?"  
  


Tony dropped his fork on the plate. It hit with a loud clatter. "You should see Sundays. It's a real fucking party then."  
  


He swallowed, but Clint didn't reply. He was wondering about the 11am start on Sundays. The truth, though, was that this trained spy, superhero, and Avenger wanted to stay ignorant just a little longer. At least with ignorance he could playact that this was just another meal in the tower, that Tony wasn't naked and decorated like some weird fetish art project. He could stick his head in the sand. _'Oh, no, someone I have grown to care for deeply isn't being held captive and raped fully against his will! He's not falling to pieces in front of me!'_

If he could just stay in the dark, even for a little longer, to actually celebrate that he had found Tony, alive, after two months of knowing nothing, two months of no sleep, of Zombie Avengers just going through the motions unless they were working on a lead to locate their missing teammate, which they did so vigorously, relentlessly. Detrimentally. Every time the lead didn't pan out. Every time they went back to the tower and saw the dust starting to settle on Tony's unused coffee mug, the fleece blanket he favored that no one else could bear to use in his absence and so it sat, where Tony had left it, on the floor next to the armchair, adjacent to the text Tony was reading, a worn bookmark stuffed between the pages, waiting for its owner to pick up where he had left off. The old and tattered slippers still splayed on the floor by the TV, where the tile in the kitchen met the carpet of the living room. The half-eaten box of rainbow cookies from Tony's favorite Italian bakery, stale now with age, sitting on top of the toaster, the red and white strings from the box flailing gently every time they walked past, like a ghost's hand, gently waving at them from a time long ago when the tower was filled with barks of laughter, sarcasm, and ill-timed jokes that still made them laugh.

But he couldn't pretend it away. That just wasn't possible.   
  


"Each night it's Davin and his three right hands: Juan, Simon, and Miller." Tony paused. "I hate them. Sometimes they don't show, and it's just Davin, or maybe just two of them. Davin is always there even if he doesn't always participate.”  
  


"And Sundays?" Clint couldn't seem to get his voice above a whisper.  
  


"That's when he does his business. I'm a bargaining chip. Sometimes it's only five extra men. Sometimes more. Three weeks ago it was fifteen." The haunted look was back, and Tony's breath was becoming ragged. "The only good thing," he gasped out, and Clint heard the panic attack approaching, "was that I got the week off after that. But he-" Tony was struggling to draw air, "he went crazy on Saturday. Having to spend-" Clint was out of his chair in an instant, kneeling beside Tony and gathering him in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. "To spend-"  
  


"Tony, man, Tones, stop, it's okay I get it. Please, don't do this to yourself." Fuck it all, he was openly crying now, and wouldn't Nat get a kick out of that?  
  


So, Davin had to let Tony heal and being without his concubine made him even rougher when he finally was able to take him. And on top of that, Tony still had to face another Sunday.  
  


Tony crumpled into Clint, throwing his shackled arms over his head to hold on and the archer had to brace himself to safely get them to the floor. Great, heaving sobs erupting from the genius as he wept into Clint's neck. "I want to go home, I want to go home!" Tony cried.

And all Clint could do was grasp him tightly and let his own tears flow.  
  


Twenty minutes later, Tony had calmed enough to finish his meal, but even then he kept his head low, his eyes downcast in shame and pain. Clint didn't want to think about him not eating. He needed his strength more than ever and not for the first time that day the archer wondered of the fairness of it all.  
  


When they finished, Marietta returned to gather the empty dishes and dirty silverware. She left a fresh decanter of water on the table with two clean glasses and scurried away without saying anything. Clint briefly mulled over the lack of scripted conversation, but it was most likely because of time. Davin wouldn't want any lingering when he was waiting for his Beautiful Luna.  
  


"So what do we do?" Clint asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tony. They were facing the door where Marietta had just left. Tony still had tear tracks on his face, and Clint was sure he had the same.  
  


Tony swallowed. "Bath first. I need help because, well..." his lifted his arms, the chains clanging lightly.  
  


"Yeah, man, yeah, sure. Uh," Clint gestured toward the bathroom. "Lead the way."  
  


Aside from a toilet and large vanity and basin, there was a stand-up shower, and a massive tub. The room was lit by two mounted lights, emitting a hazy glow, and was painted in soft hues of blue and silver. Clint made his way to the tub; he was at a loss but needed Tony to think he could do this, that he could take charge and handle this completely fucked up situation. There were four knobs and Clint blinked.  
  


"Why the fuck are there so many of them?"  
  


He heard a small chuckle behind him, and Tony leaned past to turn on two of them and pull out another. "Hot water," he said, pointing to each in turn, "cold water. Shower head, and stopper."  
  


"Right, yeah, of course. Of course I knew that, man. I mean," he gestured, "Right? I got this." Tony just raised his brows, his lips quirking.  
  


"Have I mentioned I'm glad you're here?" He turned toward the sink, grabbing a toothbrush and making quick work of brushing his teeth. It was almost comical how his left hand dangled below his right. Clint tested the water. The temperature seemed good, but Tony had felt so cold before. He turned the hot water on a little higher.  
  


Tony rinsed his mouth and picked up a container. Clint was confused for all of a second before Tony opened it, scooped thick cream into his fingers, and smeared it on his chin. Of course it wouldn't be regular shaving cream. Davin probably had it imported. Nothing but the best for his Beautiful Luna, unless it meant consent.  
  


"Why did they have you shave? Most people love the, you know," he wiggled his fingers at his own chin.  
  


"Davin likes my face clean."  
  


"Apart from the nose ring." Immediately, Clint regretted saying it. Tony froze, looking lost.  
  


"Even when we go home," he never said if, only when, "I'll still have the scar. I'll look into a mirror and be reminded." Turning towards Clint, Tony spoke in a voice that was at once old and tired, and young and innocent. "It's not going to be okay, is it?"  
  


Clint hated how small he sounded. Tony Stark should never sound small. He was larger than life, despite his tiny frame. "I don't know, man," He answered honestly. "Let's get there first."  
  


Tony nodded in acquiescence and turned back to the mirror. By the time he was done shaving, the tub had been filled. Giving his limited use of his hands, Clint helped him in. He picked up the loofah where it hung and grabbed a bottle of expensive looking body wash.

"Barton, listen." Tony said, once again sounding more like himself. "I'm going to be honest with you. I, er, I start to get a little, I don't know, out there? as the bath finishes." He looked steady into Clint's face. The last stand of a man headed to the gallows. "In the bottom drawer of the dresser in the bedroom, there are toys and lube. You have to use your fingers first. Then work your way up. The better I'm stretched, the less it hurts." Clint tried to swallow around the rock in his throat, how on earth had _that_ gotten there? He nodded and Tony continued, "In the top drawer are sprays and creams and paints. He likes the gold one, it goes on my chest, my face...everywhere. The second drawer down is jewelry. Pick whatever you want, he doesn't care what it is, he just wants it on me. Go for the necklaces. The rings bother my hands when I tighten them." Clint didn't have to ask why he was going to be clenching his fists. "The third drawer is wraps. I'm not allowed clothes or shoes. But he likes when I wear sheer wraps around my waist. They don't usually make it back to the room. He buys me more and makes a big show of it, like it's some great gift. Here's a wrap! You can wear it when I rape you!" Tony's voice that had grown steady and sure in his instructions, stuttered to a stop. His hands, which had been gesturing wildly, fell useless into the water.  
  


Clint had no words. So he just lathered up the loofah and began washing Tony's back, careful of the scars, even though they had long healed over. He knew scars could still hurt, years after the fact.  
  


He took his time, wary of the bruises, gently washing the abused skin and doing his absolute best to keep it together. Clint knew he couldn't lose it on Tony. He didn't remember the last time he was so out of control with his emotions, but it was imperative that he was strong for the genius. Tony needed stoic, he needed an oak tree to grip during the storm. He didn't need a mess of emotional displays and confusion.  
  


He could see Tony drawing within himself, his shoulders hunching and his eyes glazing. He was going father and farther away, and Clint couldn't even blame him.  
  


Somehow, he managed to wash Tony's behind and privates without batting an eye. Though he was close to tipping over when the loofah brushed over his rectum and Tony let out a quiet cry of violation, though Clint somehow knew it wasn't directed at him personally.  
  


The towels were lush and soft, a small mercy for Tony as Clint wrapped them around him and carefully dried the tanned skin. "Where do you want...?"  
  


"Bed. It's the most comfortable." Tony sounded miles away. Probably back in New York, Clint thought. Sitting on the couch, stealing popcorn from Thor and arguing the finer details of 80's slasher films with Bruce. That's where Clint would be if the positions were switched.  
  


When Tony laid down, it was with a disturbingly practiced ease. He lay on his stomach, his arms crooked at the elbows and his head pillowed on them. As Clint knelt on the bed with the lube and the toys, Tony bent his knees, opening himself up. The glazed look was still in his eyes, his brain's autopilot taking over.  
  


Clint tried not to look. He tried not to actually see the whipping scars or the hand shaped bruises around his waist. He certainly didn't want to see how his rectum, despite the prepping, still somehow looked abused.  
  


"Are you ready?" Tony didn't answer. So Clint began. His hands shook as he open the lube, but he was surprisingly steady as pushed one finger inside of Tony. He attempted to compartmentalize, to push it back and deal with the situation step by step. Clinical. Steadfast. But the pained sounds Tony made ripped him right back into the moment. Silent tears were dripping down his face, and his body shuddered as Clint worked him open.  
  


As he added a second finger, Tony turned his face and buried it into the bedspread. Clint pulled out. "Tony, man, Tony..." he had to stop talking when his voice hitched. This wasn't right. It was all sorts of wrong. Things like this shouldn't have to happen. People as good as Tony, as good as Clint tried to be...they shouldn't have to face this shit.  
  


"Please," Tony sobbed, "I don't want to hurt. You have to."  
  


Clint looked up. Tony was looking at him over his shoulder, his eyes filled with ghosts and his face flushed with emotion. He steeled himself. Tony needed him.  
  


Adding more lube, he went back with three fingers this time, slowly scissoring and aiding the muscles in relaxing. He touched Tony nowhere else. It didn't seem right.  
  


When he reached for the smallest toy, his hands only stilled for a moment. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, trying to fight the urge to break down. But then Tony cried out when it breached him, and Clint couldn't stop the steam of tears if he tried. He wept silently. With Tony's face sobbing into the blankets, the genius couldn't see. He couldn't witness Clint losing the small modicum of control he had. His body shook with the enclosed sobs, but Tony didn't notice; he was too busy swinging on his own hell.  
  


On and on it went. The toys gradually getting bigger, until the largest one slid easily in and out.  
  


He was done.  
  


"Tony?" But he didn't answer. "Tones? Shit, Tones. This is so fucked, man." Clint crawled up the bed, gathering Tony in his arms and just holding him for a few horrible moments. But a glance at the clock told him it was after 7:15. They didn't have much time. So he let go of Tony and tried to pretend he didn't hear the wail of protest at the loss of comfort.  
  


It was like he wasn't himself. Like he was watching from up above as his hands applied the gold paint, the necklaces, and the sheer wrap. Like he no longer existed because no human being could cope with this fucking shit.  
  


Finished, he stood back, body still shaking.  
  


"It's gonna be all right, man, you hear me? It's going to be-"  
  


There was a loud knock at the door. It was 7:45. It was time.  
  


All Clint could do at this point was watch as Juan entered and picked Tony up, bridal style, and took him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I beg of you all, if you liked the story, please leave a comment and/or a kudos. We writers are an anxious and fickle group; if we don't feel the love we immediately think everyone hates us and to stop writing. Or is that just me? I appreciate it all, nonetheless. <3


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is returned and Clint must now clean him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter, and honestly all of them, but I'll continue to say it just in case. This chapter deals with rape aftermath, Clint attempting to clean and care for Tony. 
> 
> As usual, thank you to My Fic Whore (Tiffany) and My Little Sparkle (Lan) for all the amazing help and support you've giving me.

3

Clint hadn't realized he had fallen asleep. He jerked awake at the sound of the door opening and sat up, the book he was attempting to read earlier to distract him from what was being done to Tony slowly slid to the floor. It landed with thunk of finality.

Two men had entered, one carrying Tony, and neither was Juan. Clint figured they were Simon and Miller, both were just as massive as Juan and had no trouble manhandling Tony; he followed their movements with his eyes. The one holding his friend was covered in tattoos. Most, Clint recognized, were gang related. The other was bald with a jagged scar down the middle of his head.

The tattooed one placed Tony on the couch and turned towards Clint. "Caretaker, clean him up." And without another word, both left. The door shut with a soft click and the archer couldn't help but find the irony in that.

Clint slowly raised himself from the pallet. He felt like he was walking to his own execution. The back of the couch faced him; he was unable to see Tony until he rounded the edge of it, and when he did, he immediately dropped to knees beside him.

"Oh, Tony." There was no sarcasm or quick witted quip to save Clint from what he was seeing.

He lay—in the fetal position with his back to Clint—trembling visibly; the wrap was gone, discarded somewhere in Davin's haste to have all of him. Tony's wrists and neck were red from the bonds being pulled, there were new, already deepening bruises on his hips, and the gold cream Clint had applied had worn off in most places. Some of it had gathered in certain spots, the dips into his waist, on the back of his knees, puddled with come and sweat...

At the back of his throat, Clint felt vomit. His eyes slowly moved, taking in the sight before him, and when he saw the drops of blood that had slipped down his thighs, he had to hastily stumble to the bathroom to be sick.

None of this was fair. None of this was even remotely fair! But as Clint quickly rinsed his mouth, he knew that even though that thought had popped up often since he first entered the room, it still hadn't changed a single goddamn thing. He had to get it to-fucking-gether! Tony needed him. He needed him to be his stronghold, his pillar, not hiding in the bathroom while come slowly dried on Tony's back and legs and...

Oh, fuck. He was going to be sick again if he kept thinking along those lines.

With as much false bravado as he could muster, Clint turned the faucet on and wetted several washcloths. He wrung them out with more gusto than he intended and needed a second, again, to compose himself. When he next knelt beside Tony, he breathed in deeply, and lightly touched the smaller man's shoulder.

And Tony jerked. Hard. The whimper he let out sent stabs of guilt through Clint's abdomen.

"Hey, hey, dude, it's just me. It's Barton."

Tony finally lifted his head from under his arms and looked back. His eyes were red and puffy but there were no tears. It seemed he had run out of those. "Clint?"

"Yeah, it's me. In all my feathered glory." There was no reaction, no sign that Tony even understood the words he was saying. Clint tried to steady his resolve. "I'm going to clean you up now, okay? Okay." He answered himself. Taking one of the washcloths in hand, he hovered over Tony's backside for a moment before moving to his shoulders and starting there. He was gentle, speaking softly and calmly, letting Tony know everything he was going to do before he did it. Wiping and cleaning what he could, skipping over his bottom and hips to clean his legs, leaning over to get his chest, his face, his stomach, moving him gently to get under his left side, before sitting back on his haunches and contemplating the kindest way to clean the most abused areas on Tony's body.

Nothing stuck out. Nothing about this was going to be easy.

Tossing the dirty washcloths in the laundry bin, he grabbed four more fresh ones and wet them with warm water. When he returned to Tony, he sat on the couch instead of the floor, lifting Tony's legs into his lap. "Hey, Shellhead," he said, using Cap's nickname for him, "just close your eyes, I'll be done as soon as you can say Jackie Robinson." Still, Tony didn't answer.

With steadier hands than he thought possible, Clint lifted his right leg and bent it at the knee. Tony didn't fight him.

He had to go gradually; he had to be as gentle as possible. Rushing would only hurt him, and Clint refused to let that happen. He couldn't add more pain on top of what Tony was already feeling.

It was slow going. The gold that had dripped stuck harder here than other places, and the come that had dried was flaked. Thankfully, there wasn't much blood. As Clint tenderly parted his cheeks, he was relieved to see no tears on the rectum, but that also meant that the blood most likely came from inside him. And wasn't that fantastic?

"I don't usually bleed anymore," Tony spoke at last. His voice was raw. Clint didn't want to think why. He only hummed in response, intent on getting Tony clean and into bed as prompt and humanely as possible. "The fourth drawer. All the medical supplies are in there."

He knew that Tony was coming back to himself, gaining awareness, but that meant he'd probably feel every ounce of hurting, the emotional as well as the physical.

So, Clint hurried his movements as much as he dared without causing Tony any more discomfort. When he finished wiping him clean, he slowly lifted his legs from his lap and stood. "Okay, man, I'll be right back." Just as he said, Clint found the medical supplies in the second to last drawer. It unnerved him that a dresser held no clothes, only items that could be used in a sick sex addiction. And that's what it was, wasn't it? Davin was addicted to Tony. He was obsessed.

The drawer held a first aid kit, needles and thread for suturing--and Clint didn't even want to _think_ about that--plus different creams and ointments, including a bruise cream that the team has used before with good results, and a tub of Vaseline. Clint refused to touch it. There was a wooden box lined with prescription bottles, each with a different person's name; antibiotics, he read on the label. It made sense if Tony kept getting torn, so Clint grabbed the bruise cream and a bottle of amoxicillin and returned to the sitting area.

Tony was as he left him, laying still, his face buried in the cushions. "I need you to sit up a bit," Clint said, pouring a glass of water from the decanter Marietta had left earlier. “In the morning, we'll get you in the shower, man, but for right now, take this and then we'll head over to the bed, okay?”

Tony's rough voice answered him, "Antibiotics?"

"How many cycles of these have you been through?"

"Only one so far. When I first...when I first got here. I tore pretty bad, I think. I got feverish, you know? Think I had the beginnings of an infection. Fucked up, right? That's when he got the antibiotics. Got enough in there to last a few years, huh?"

Clint mumbled, "We won't be here for a few years. Not if I have anything to say about it. C'mere." He slipped his hands behind Tony's back, lightly pulling him up enough that he wouldn't asphyxiate on the pill. "Lean forwards a sec, man, let me just..." He shoved a pillow behind Tony to support his back and winced when Tony let out a small whimper as he put too much pressure on his bottom. "Shit, sorry, dude, can you stand it, just for a few? You need to take this." He held out his hand, the pill resting on his palm.

"Yeah," Tony nodded, moving his hands to take the pill. He shoved it into his mouth quickly, and Clint held the water glass to his lips, he pulled back to let Tony swallow.

"Do you want more?"

"Please," Tony begged, apparently not realizing just how thirsty he was. Clint brought the cup back up and Tony drank greedily. When he tried to pull it away, the genius' hands snapped up to hold it there, a desperate noise emitting from his maltreated throat.

"Tony! Bro, slow down. There's plenty!" Reluctantly, Tony dropped his hands. "Okay, let me get you some more." After refilling the glass, Clint helped Tony's hands hold it. He was weak. The stress put on his body exhausting him to the point he couldn't even handle the weight of water. But Clint knew that Tony needed to at least try to do it himself. If he knew anything about him, it was that. Tony was always so fiercely independent, having to depend so vastly on others must have been driving him berserk. And with everything else on top of that, Clint knew that little things like holding a glass could be small wonders in keeping him just hunky-dory and still in his right mind for when they got out of this (And they were getting the fuck out of this, Clint would swear on anything that they were, he refused to even entertain the idea of not going home.).

After Tony drank a third glass, Clint helped him lay down again. He moved to put the pillow under his hips to help with the soreness, hooking his arm under Tony's knees with one hand and lifting cautiously.

And he froze.

There was a little puddle of come under Tony, and Clint fought back more tears. He had cried enough today; he needed to remain strong.

"Yeah, that happens." A quiet voice reached through the fog and tugged Clint back into the present.

"It's okay, Tones. No sweat." Replacing Tony's legs on the couch, Clint tried to smile at him, "back in a jiff. Quicker than you can say-"

"Jackie Robinson, I know."

The sides of the sink were firm under Clint's hands. He squeezed, briefly wondering if he applied enough pressure, if it would crack. Taking a deep breath, he wetted yet another washcloth and put on his game face.

Cleaning Tony the second time was somehow worse. And Clint knew it wouldn't be the last. He left him again to place a towel, folded in half, on the right side of the bed where he estimated Tony's hips and bottom would be, and placed the bruise salve on the nightstand.

"Okay, bro, time to get up. You can't stay on the couch." Taking Tony's arm in his hand, Clint tried really hard to ignore the gold cuff. "Come on, up!" Tony tried. He really did. But his knees gave out and Clint had to rush to catch him, "Easy, man, easy. I got you." More come had leaked from Tony, and Clint swallowed hard, pushing the anger down. "Let's try that again."

Tony gasped, "Can't," he choked out. "'M'sorry, I can't."

"Hey, it's all good, man," Clint consoled, laying Tony down, "what's the problem?"

"My legs," Tony's face reddened, "they hold them open, they make me," he looked away, "they make me squat and ride them. It's just too much. I can't seem to get used to it."

"You shouldn't fucking have to." Clint bit out, angry on Tony's behalf.

Tony looked at him, his eyes warming. "Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem, sorry, uh, got a temper sometimes, you know?"

"Yeah, me too."

There were times with the team when they pushed too hard on Tony to open up and he snapped back at them; when Steve's orders didn't add up in Tony's head and they ended up in a ridiculous screaming match; when Tony's hands shook with exhaustion too much while trying to solder a piece of his armor that he ended up throwing across the room. That was Tony's temper, and Clint wanted nothing more than to see it at that instant. He wanted Tony to get angry, to be pissed, to look at the situation he was in and just get mad as hell. It was better than the almost placid nature he had while laying on the couch. The acceptance of his current position as pet to a drug lord gnawed at Clint, it worked its way into his body like a disease, festering, forcing Clint to face the reality that Tony may still have some hope, but it was dwindling fast.

Clint stayed quiet, not wanting to bring it up again. Moving Tony's legs once more, he sat on the couch and placed them on his lap.

"What are you doing?" In answer, Clint began massaging the calves. Tony groaned in appreciation. "That works too."

"I can't lift you, bro, I'm not Thor or Steve, I'm sorry. But you can't stay on the couch, it'll be hell on your back, and you're in enough pain as is." Tony might not enjoy the honesty, they had been skirting around the issue all day, but Clint was having more and more trouble keeping his facade up. Each time he broke down, it became harder and harder to get back up. Honesty just seemed better.

"I used to sleep on the couch in the workshop all the time." _Used to._

"That fucking thing was molded to you. It doesn't count." Clint's hands worked up to his thighs, loosening the muscles. "Just need to get you to bed, you'll be okay in the morning."

"Afternoon. S'it's usually by the afternoon."

"Yeah, okay, it's fine, man. Does that feel better?"

Tony nodded, "Yeah, the trembling's gone down."

Clint looked at his face, trying to judge how honest Tony was going to be, "Think you can walk?"

"With help, I think." Tony shrugged one shoulder. "Sam was really strong. He was almost as big as Steve. He was able to carry me. Haven't really tried."

Clint pulled Tony into a sitting position before he stood up and in one fluid movement, tugged Tony up and against his chest. "Put your hands behind my neck," he instructed, waiting as Tony did so, "just take it easy, man, let me support you, one step at a time." It was arduous, but they made it to the bed. "I'm going to lay you down."

"Wait." Tony's eyes had been dry since he was brought back to the room, but his breath was hitching.

"What? What is it?"

"I need...I need you to wipe me again." His face went red, he bowed his head, leaning it on Clint's shoulder. "It's messy."

"I know, man. Don't sweat it. I'm going to turn you, lay on your stomach, I got this." If he faked the confidence, maybe it'd start to exist naturally. Or at least Tony wouldn't notice that Clint was crumbling from the inside.

It took some maneuvering, but Clint managed to get Tony on his front, square on the towel. He ended up back in the bathroom, once again, wetting washcloths and grabbing a fresh towel, before wiping the fluid for third time from Tony's bottom and thighs. He was right when he thought that it was going to get harder.

"I can try to, you know, push it out." And wasn't that fantastic? Tony's voice was tiny, ashamed. Clint's mouth went dry at the implication. Exactly how much was there?

"Does it hurt?"

"Not as much anymore."

"Yeah, okay, that might work." He looked away as Tony did so, staring off towards one of the windows, watching the night sky. The moon was full. The hum of the air conditioner filled his ears and it felt like his brain was buzzing along with it.

"Think I got most of it. But they'll be more, I'm sorry."

"The fuck you apologizing for, it's not your fault, dumbass," Clint took the washcloth and knelt between Tony's legs. "You have nothing to be-" Shit. That was a lot. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yeah. Sure."

Clint cleaned him for the fourth time that night. This time, he couldn't keep his tears from slipping down his face. When he finished, he carefully changed the towel underneath Tony and washed his hands. When he applied the bruise cream, he kept his touches light, so he wouldn't exacerbate the injuries even more so.

He capped the jar and replaced everything back into the dresser. When he turned back to the bed, Tony was asleep. Clint didn't think twice. He climbed next to him and gathered Tony into his arms, smiling softly as the smaller man curled up against him. But as exhausted as he was, the archer was positive he wasn't getting much sleep that night. Everything kept replaying over and over in his head. The sun was rising by the time his eyes finally slipped shut, and he fell away to a place too dark for dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy, I know. Again, I'm a sucker for happy and/or hopeful endings. So bear with the brutality of this fic, please! And I'm on my knees begging for comments because I'm a sucker for praise. Feed me, Seymour!


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davin visits. Clint contemplates and he and Tony have an important conversation, the first of many. The situation has thrown him on uneven ground and everything is different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful betas and supporters, Lan and Tiff, have assured me that I do a thorough job of explaining through this and the subsequent chapters (I have seven written so far) about why Clint and Tony are behaving as they are in this story. BUT! Me being me, I feel the need to clarify. I'm sorry, ANXIETY IS MAKING ME DO IT!
> 
> Regardless of life experiences and training, I feel like this is a truly fucked up and twisted situation that they are currently in. Tony was already mostly broken by the time Clint arrived and Barton himself is crumbling from the stress of it. The estate, Davin...everything! is completely abnormal even for two superheroes. They are still human after all. 
> 
> Anyway, I go (slowly) more into Clint's mind throughout the next few chapters and hopefully I am showing Tony's current mental state well enough to fully explain. I think anyone, no matter what they've been taught, would react as our boys are in this situation.
> 
> If you have further questions, if I confused you even more, or if you just want to say you understand, please leave a comment, and I will get back to you ASAP! And though I have much of this story planned out, I do take suggestions when it works with my flow! I encourage them! As a writer, I am nothing without the support from my readers. LOVE LOVE!

4

It was too few precious hours of sleep before Clint was blinking awake. The sound of the waves, louder than they were the night before, had woken him. He was confused until he saw the windows and balcony doors wide open. Who had done that? The central air had been turned off, the absence of the buzzing sounding bizarre to Clint's ears. But it was fairly cool in the room, despite it being April in the Tropics.

Tony's head was on his chest, his warm breath against Clint's skin reminding him of everything that had happened the previous day. Getting captured, finding Tony, learning about what he had been through the last two months...

Clint pushed the thoughts down and pulled Tony closer, just happy in that moment to have him back in any capacity, even such a damaged one.

"Caretaker, you should not let the Master see you in bed with Beautiful Luna."

Clint jumped, disturbing Tony enough for him to roll over away from him, but remain asleep. "Marietta! I'm sorry, I didn't know."

She cocked her head to the side. "It's okay, Caretaker. I have had talks with the others in the kitchen. We know who you are. He is your friend. You care for him."

"He's my brother." It was the first time Clint had said it out loud. "You can call me Clint."

"Thank you, but no. It is better to stay in the habit of referring to you as Caretaker. Master would not want otherwise." Her accent was thick and her voice calm.

"Be honest with me." Clint said as he stood, realizing he failed to bring the covers up the night before and tugging them over Tony's sleeping body. "Are you here because you want to be?"

"There are no servants here who are, Caretaker." She was setting out breakfast. "It is not all bad," she spoke as she arranged the silverware, "we understand it could be worse." Looking pointedly at Tony, she pursed her lips and went back to what she was doing.

"Yeah, I guess so." There was something to be said about Tony's situation that even the slaves who had probably been there far longer pitied him.

It was uncharacteristic, but Clint leaned down to run his fingers through Tony's hair in an act of comfort. The genius mewed softly, leaning into the comforting touch. It made Clint's heart ache. Sure, Tony was never an affectionate guy, but being here for so long must have touched starved him. At least in the way of sweet touches, and not gang rape.

"Our team is coming. We'll get you all outta here as well."

"That is a kind thought," Marietta spoke, "but as the American saying goes, I will not hold my breath." He liked the way she rolled her R's. There was something comforting in the way she spoke. It was maternal, cozy, like a familiar embrace.

"I guess that's fair." Clint moved to the table, taking in the delicate China and the crystal bowls of fruits. "But they are coming."

She hummed her response. "Master usually comes to check on Beautiful Luna after breakfast. When you see him, bow your head and say: 'Good morning, Master. It is a gracious day in your home. I thank you for allowing me to care for your Beautiful Luna.'"

"Jesus, I should write this down." Marietta hastily made the sign of the cross. "Shit, sorry, I mean, shoot, sorry!" He cringed. "I mean, oh boy, I should write this down." He earned a laugh for his mess up. From her apron, she produced a packet.

"It's a, how do you say, ah, cheat sheet." He took the packet, holding it with both hands. "Do not let Master see, but we have one for all new arrivals. If the servants do not have each other's backs, who does?"

"Thank you," Clint said quietly. "What else happens today? Do you know?"

She placed the covers to the dishes on the cart, "After Master comes, you will be left alone until 7:45, I will be back with your lunch, tea, and supper." Marietta said, adjusting a fork so it sat straight. "When you have earned his trust, he will let you take Beautiful Luna outside."

Clint looked towards the open doors, the crashing of the waves lulling him for a moment. "That would be nice."

"It will always be myself first in here in morning. Do you wish me to wake you so that Master does not see you in his beloved's bed?"

He winced at the word beloved, but supposed Tony couldn't be referred to Beautiful Luna all the time. "Yes, please. Uh, thank you. For all your help, I mean."

"Of course." She paused. "You should wake him. Master will be here around ten."

"Oh, yeah, I'll do that."

"I will see you at noon for lunch, and at two for tea." With that, she exited. Leaving Clint to mull over everything he had learned.

With a sigh, he headed to the bed, loathe to wake Tony when he so obviously needed the rest. "Tones? Hey, Tony. Time to wake up. Breakfast is here." Tony groaned but opened his eyes. They went wide for a second, staring at Clint with wonder, the deep brown an almost honey color in the morning light.

"It is you. I thought I dreamed the whole thing."

The smile was forced, but still authentic. "Yeah, it's me. Your favorite Bird Brain."

Tony smiled at that, a true genuine smile that made Clint's chest tighten. How often did Tony have reason to smile anymore?

"Let me help you up." Clint placed the packet Marietta had given him on the nightstand. A glance at the clock told him it was just after eight. He had time to peruse it before Davin came.

Tony held his arms out—it was surreal how used to being cuffed he was—and Clint took his wrists cautiously, pulling him up. "You okay? Sorry, stupid question." The genius groaned but was otherwise able to stand on his own two feet.

"I'm good." Not completely true, but they'd live with that answer for the moment.

Clint stayed slightly behind Tony as they walked to the table, ready to catch him should he waiver and fall, but they made it with no issue, and Tony sat gingerly. Marietta, Clint saw, had placed a pillow on Tony's chair, and, if he was seeing correctly, had cleaned up the mess on the couch as well.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for the woman. She had to have had family somewhere. Did they miss her? Did they know where she was?

Of course not, Clint scolded himself, this whole island would have shut down already had anyone known about the captives here.

Breakfast was soft boiled eggs (fucking yuck!), fruit, a slice of ham each, and...was that coffee?!

Clint gulped the hot beverage, shuddering as the steaming liquid hit his throat. "Oh, thank Thor!" He quipped, returning to an old joke between the two. He received another real smile and a laugh in return.

"Only in the mornings," Tony said, "but it's good. Colombian."

"Oh, fuck, that's delicious." He finished the cup and reached for the coffee urn to refill.

Tony expertly cracked open his egg and Clint wasn't sure if he had learned that here or in his rich kid upbringing. "I, uh, just wanted to say thank you. You know. For last night."

Picking up a piece of melon from his own bowl of fruit, the archer furrowed his brows. "Fuck, Tony, you'd do the same for me."

"Yeah. Think we all would." His look subdued. "I know this can't be easy. We can't fight this enemy. We're unarmed, trapped..." he looked away, out through the balcony doors, towards freedom. "I know I've changed. I'm not an idiot."

Clint was quiet for a moment, thinking. At length, he spoke. "You didn't have a choice."

Shaking his head, Tony agreed. "And I don't know if I can go back to...before." he sighed and put down his fork. "I changed after Afghanistan too, wasn't able to go back to what I was. This seems different though."

"It is, man. It's totally different."

"Is it?"

Clint stabbed a strawberry. "Yeah, bro. It is. They," he referred to the Ten Rings, "wanted weapons. Davin just wants to own you." Pausing to shove the berry into his mouth, Clint continued with his mouth full, "He's a fucking lunatic, Tony. You'd be crazy not be changed by it." Swallowing, he continued, "That doesn't mean you can't, like, deal with it. Heal and all that Lifetime shit."

"Eloquent as usual."

Clint snorted. "I've missed your sense of humor."

Tony hugged himself as best he could with his hands cuffed, covering his body in an attempt to unconsciously protect himself. Clint wasn't sure exactly what he had said to set off Tony's defenses in front of him. "I...I mean before you came, I don't actually remember the last time I laughed. Or made a joke. I think I did, at first. When I still thought I had a shot in hell of getting out of here." He thought he did? What was up with that?

"You'll be back to driving Cap nuts and making Nat roll her eyes in no time." Clint tried, edging a small grin on his own face. He wanted that hollow expression on Tony's face to go away.

"Yeah, maybe." He looked towards the ocean again, his eyes faraway.

"If it's any consolation, I'm not getting out of here unscathed either." When Tony didn't answer, Clint leaned across the table and touched his arm. "Hey, man...come back."

Tony blinked. "I'm sorry. That's happening more and more. I get kind of...lost, I guess."

"You do what you need to cope." Clint shrugged. "When we get home, I'm going to cope in a barrel of whiskey."

Tony barked a laugh; it was a welcome sound. "Room in that barrel for me?"

"You paying for it?"

"You only love me for my money, you jerk."

"Yeah, yeah, you paying or what?" Clint used the melon he had just forked to gesture.

Tony scoffed and batted his fork away from his face, "Of course I'm paying. Think I'd trust you to buy the good stuff? I don't drink Evan Williams, Barton."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Clint retorted with his mouth full again. "When that's the only booze you got, you drink it and you love it." It felt so natural to banter with Tony, like they were back home, bickering in the kitchen.

"Lucky for you, that's not only booze I have." Tony's face froze and Clint knew the moment was over. "At least not here." He whispered, looking down.

"When we get back, we'll get trashed, man. Just absolutely sloppy. Like two sorority girls on their first weekend out." He was grasping, trying to bring the levity back into the conversation. It was obvious by Tony's eyes that he was failing. "Tony," he started, suddenly not hungry anymore, "they're coming. I know it."

But Tony was lost again, somewhere out at sea, perhaps flying in his suit, going anywhere else but where they were.

\---

10am came quickly and Davin entered the room with the air of someone who was victorious in everything they did, which, Clint supposed, was exactly the way it happened.

Clint and Tony were in the small library, each reading a different book, trying to pass the time. As soon as he was noticed, Tony jumped up and knelt on the floor with his head bowed. Clint was slower to move, not used to being subservient just yet. The cheat sheet Marietta had given him said to stand—not kneel like Tony was—and that bothered him. Was Tony considered lower than he was?

Tony spoke as Davin stood before him. "Good morning, Master. I am delighted to see you on this wonderful morning in your home." Davin stepped forward and caressed Tony's cheek, using his pointer finger to tap under his chin to have him raise his head. Clint wanted to hit him, to growl out, _Don't you touch him!_

"My Beautiful Luna, look at you." He murmured, "My Intelligent Moon, my Italian Star. Your beauty could stop wars." It was hard, but Clint managed to not gag out loud. That would be counterproductive. "Did my beloved sleep well?"

"Yes, Master. I always sleep well after you have loved me so."

Clint was seeing red. How dare this monster make Tony pretend to be grateful after raping him. His fists clenched unconsciously, and he almost missed Davin turning to him.

"Caretaker?" His left eyebrow raised and the archer had to force himself to calm down.

"Good morning, Master. It is a gracious day in your home. I thank you for allowing me to care for your Beautiful Luna."

Davin's smirk screamed triumphant victory.

"Excellent." His voiced oozed. "Now, let's see if you are being properly cared for. We wouldn't want anything to happen to my Beautiful Luna, hmm?"

 _Oh no,_ thought Clint, _we wouldn't want anything to happen to him such as forcibly fucking him, right?_ Clint didn't think it was possible to hate someone so profoundly. "No, Master." He said out loud.

Davin continued talking, barely paying Clint any mind. "Come, Beloved, let me check you over." He led Tony to the couch, sitting and throwing his arms over the back. He was lounging, the smug bastard. "Caretaker, stand there," he waved his hand to the other couch and Clint moved to stand in front of it. Tony needed no instruction. He climbed onto Davin's lap, facing him and straddling his legs, his knees pressed into the cushions. The sight of it had Clint repressing vomit.

Davin took his time. He inspected the bruises first, rubbing them in a way that had Tony quietly wincing. "You applied the balm, good." And he ran his fingers along the inner crevice that connected Tony's thigh to his body, looking at his fingers when done. "And he is clean. Excellent."

Clint had wiped Tony down again after breakfast, forgetting at first that the rest of the come had to exit his rectum. He was glad he remembered.

"Open up, my Luna." Tony closed his eyes and opened his mouth; Davin's face took on a predatory gleam. "Eyes open, Beloved." Tony winced slightly but opened his eyes. With a slimy grin, the bastard stuck his middle finger into Tony's mouth. Clint felt his body tensing as Tony dutifully sucked on the digit. Davin's breath came quicker, "My, what you do to me. Open!" He commanded. And Tony's jaw went slack. "Now, let's see here," his hands traveled around Tony's body to press at his anus, slipping inside. The genius' breath hitched as he held in a cry of pain. Davin was moving around in him, searching for something.

 _You're the one that tore him, you sick fuck._ Clint's eyes narrowed slightly then widened as Davin let out an angry roar.

"You incompetent fool!" Tony was shoved off of his lap onto the other side of the couch unceremoniously, and Davin was on his feet in an instant. Clint barely had time to react before the backhand across his face sent him reeling into the sofa behind him.

Tony screamed, "No! Don't hurt him!"

Davin lowered his hand; he had been prepared to strike again. "The only thing keeping you alive right now, Caretaker, is the fact that my beloved cares for you as family," he spit out. "Get up, you worthless rodent, get up!" Clint climbed to his feet, his face throbbed, but he resisted putting a hand to it. "You are to use the Vaseline _inside_ him, you pathetic idiot!"

Clint paled. _So that's what it was for._

"If I check him again, and it's not there, I will skin you alive! Do you understand?!"

Heart beating loudly, Clint nodded, too shocked to speak. Tony wasn't kidding about him striking fear into everyone.

Without another word, he turned and sat back on the couch, looking at Tony and pointing to his lap. Clint was going to get whiplash with how fast Davin switched from one mood to another.

At first, the archer thought he just wanted him to kneel there again, but his purpose became clear when Tony submissively addressed him. "Nothing would make me happier than to pleasure you, Master."

Tears prickled Clint's eyes as Tony unzipped Davin's trousers and pulled his cock out. He set to work quickly, using his cuffed hands to jerk him.

Davin's head fell back. "Yes," he moaned. "Yes, my Italian Star." Tony bowed his head, an embarrassed flush spreading along the back of his neck and shoulder blades. Clint knew the shame was because he was there, witnessing it. "Faster," Davin groaned, and Tony complied, tightening his fists and moving quicker. It didn't take long for him to come; it spurt out in sticky streams all over Tony's hands, the milky color contrasting with the bold tan. "Thank you, my Beautiful Luna." Hands finally leaving the back of the couch, Davin cupped Tony's face. "My beloved. So beautiful, so intelligent. And all mine." Tony tucked him away neatly, his eyes downcast.

"Caretaker." Clint jumped at being addressed again. "I told you yesterday that I always get what I want. Did I not?"

His eyes were threatening to spill over, but Clint remained composed. "Yes, Master. You did."

"Keep that in mind." Davin touched Tony's shoulder, and like an off switch, he slid to the floor, still on his knees. "Until tonight, my Beautiful Luna." He cupped his face once more, and left the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Clint collapsed. "Jesus Christmas, Tony. Fuck. Shit! Are you okay?" Tony was already standing, racing to the couch and looking at the side of Clint's face that was hit. He didn't touch him, his hands were still covered in come.

"How bad? It's already bruising. Hold on."

"Tony, wait! It's not me I'm worried about!" But his protests fell on deaf ears, and wasn't that ironic? Tony washed his hands quickly and tore through the room, ripping open the medicine drawer and grabbing the bruise cream. He was back at Clint's side in an instant, unscrewing the jar and scooping out some of the balm. "No! Save that for you!"

"Believe me, he'll buy more." Tony said shakily, tilting Clint's face and gently rubbing the cream in.

"Tones," Clint tried weakly, but Tony ignored him until he was done. Only then did he sit back and still himself.

"I'm so sorry. I forgot. I should have told you!"

"Would you stop blaming yourself!" Clint snapped. Tony jolted and the archer visibly cringed. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm just, shit, Tony. I'm not worried about me, man. I've had worse."

"You didn't deserve it."

 _Neither did you_ , hung in the air around them.

\---

Lunch and tea came and went in a similar fashion, Clint remembering his lines this time. They had passed the time between Davin leaving and Marietta returning by playing one of the old board games tucked under the coffee table. _Parcheesi_. And boy did that make Clint feel old.

When they finished eating another grossly healthy meal, Clint cleaned the game up, slyly watching Tony as he did so, he was loath to admit it, but already he didn't like when Tony wasn't in his direct line of sight.

The genius had taken another book from the shelf, but instead of sitting in the squishy armchairs in the library, he sat on the floor, leaning against Clint's leg as he cleaned up the game.

"What are you reading?" He asked softly. Tony showed him the cover. " _To Engineer is Human: The Roll of Failure in Successful Design,_ " Clint read aloud. Trying to elicit a laugh out of Tony, he threw his head back and let out a loud, drawn out snore. "Yawn!"

It worked. Tony laughed, "You ass!" And slapped his leg with his book. "I'll have you know, it's very interesting."

"And you probably know all of it already."

"Hush, you, I'm reading." The sound of snoring earned Clint a second whack with the book.

"There's way too many smart people books over there and like three novels I might actually finish. Where's the stuff for us common folk?"

Tony waved his hand, not looking up from the pages, "Genius, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, and you never let me forget it." Dropping the last piece into the box, Clint closed it and slipped the board-game back under the table. "What's with all the books anyway? I thought he only wanted you for your body?" He cringed, damn his word vomit! But Tony either didn't notice or was beyond caring.

"You heard him, I'm his 'Intelligent Moon.'" Clint didn't actually see him roll his eyes, but if he would have bet money on it, he knew he'd be a few bucks richer. "He stocked the shelves with what he thought were books a genius would love."

"They're not?" Clint asked, gesturing to the hardcover still in Tony's hands.

"Well," Tony said, dipping his head back to look up at Clint. His clean shaven face was still a bit jarring to see. "You said it. I already know it all. But there's not much to do around here...during the day anyway."

"Yeah, man, I guess." Dropping back against the cushions, Clint saw Tony's mood souring quickly. They hadn't yet breached the topic of what had happened that morning, and Clint was learning that Tony's mood ebbed and flowed like the ocean outside because of what was happening. Not that he could blame him, Tony was never exactly stable, none of them were really, they had all been through too much in their lives to not be a little broken. But this whole situation with Davin had shattered any semblance of balance Tony may have had.

Clint wished he could make it better. He wanted to take Tony away from the estate, to anywhere really, just to stop him from _hurting_ all the damn time. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours yet and the archer knew that the Tony Stark he had known was gone. It stung horrendously, though that didn't change how much Clint loved him. They had gone from strangers to teammates to friends to family in the course of a year, and Clint was ashamed that he had never told the older man just how much he respected and admired him.

The enigma that was Tony Stark was wrapped up in tabloid covers spanning decades, and not a single one got the whole truth. Clint learned that the hard way. The team had been slowly unwrapping his layers and breaking through his walls when he was taken, but they had gotten through enough to learn that the brilliant engineer oftentimes showcased as a philandering, spoiled, party boy was anything but. He was kind with a wicked sense of humor, compassionate as he was intelligent, and loyal to a fault—to those he called family anyway. He was willing to sacrifice his own life for the greater good and was filled with so much love that he tried (in vain) to hide away that it sometimes burst out of him in the most unusual ways. Safer uniforms, better weapons, all things to keep those he cared for protected; team dinners and movie nights; opening his home to them when he valued his privacy; and an unexpectedly steadfast ear to listen when things got a little too rough in their lives.

Clint was sure none of that would change. Even Russell Davin couldn't affect Tony enough to make him a bad person. That wasn't what worried him. It was the hollow, haunted looks that concerned him; that when they returned home, Tony would shut himself in. Trust even less than he did, and exist only as a shell: skin and bones and a broken mind. He would still care for his friends, but would he care for himself? Would he retreat into his work and live—frightened!—the rest of his life, always looking over his shoulder and waiting for Davin to reappear and take him away?

Would he be even more afraid of touch than he was before he was abducted?

This Tony craved contact. Kind touches, safety. But living for two months with only the painful, forced physical contact from Davin and his three bastards was probably what made him that way. Tony used to shy from any form of palpable affection. He turned from hugs, shrugged off comforting hands, and straight out avoided having anything handed to him for fear of touching another person. But one look at the broken man on the floor by his feet, leaning into his leg confirmed what Clint already knew: Tony needed to feel like there was still love and kindness in the world when he had been so devoid of it for so long.

And Clint Barton—archer, assassin, spy, Avenger—could not deny him that.

"Hey." He bumped Tony's shoulder with his leg, making a split-second decision, "C'mere."

Tony looked up from his book, "Huh?"

"I said, dingleberry, come. Here."

"Did you just call me a dingleberry?"

Clint huffed a laugh, "Just...fucking come here, you idiot."

Tony narrowed his eyes, but his smile remained. "Genius, remember?" He stood, placing his book on the coffee table, and sitting on the couch next to Clint.

"Oh, shut up," the archer said affectionately. And he pulled Tony close to him, swinging his legs over his lap and just held him. Tony tensed for a moment before melting into the touch, moving into a better position and tucking his head under Clint's chin. He crooked his arms against himself, and turned into Clint's body, curling up with a pleased sigh.

For his part, Clint closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around him tighter, just happy to hold him and show him that not all touch was bad, that there was still good left in this world, and despite months of torment, Tony still deserved love and comfort from someone who actually cared.

They were content to stay just like that, fading in and out of sleep and always glad to feel to the other near, not wanting to move until Marietta came in with dinner, because they knew, through the haze of temporary warmth, that 7:45 would come soon enough, and Tony would be cold again.  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this bit! The next chapter should be out Friday or Saturday at the latest.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony tells Clint about the day he was abducted, and Clint mulls over his own reactions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nine chapters written for this, but I needed a little break, which is why you haven't seen an update. I truly apologize. This is a heavy story, even for me and I'm the one writing it!

5

It was two nights later (Thursday, Clint thought sourly, Bruce's pot roast night.), after Tony had pushed most of the come out and Clint had applied the first treatment of Vaseline that a thought struck the archer. Tony was already in bed, the towel folded underneath him, and a fresh washcloth at the ready. He was already drifting towards sleep, but Clint had to know.

"Tony," he asked quietly. "Tony, we found blood in your bed." Wiping him once more, Clint tossed the washcloth onto the floor and laid down next to the genius. He was in the process of gathering him in his arms; Tony curled up and laying his head on Clint's chest, he spoke sleepily.

"I guess that doesn't surprise me."

"What happened?" It was an important question, but because of the stress of the situation, it had completely slipped his mind.

"I don't know how he did it." Tony spoke after a moment, "I guess I kinda tried not to think about it. But he somehow convinced Jarvis it was me and locked down the system in the penthouse. I think he cascaded it through the tower as he and Juan, Simon, and Miller made their way up."

"Don't blame yourself. I know the amount of safety protocols you installed into Jarvis, man, don't fucking blame yourself for missing one." Unconsciously, Clint ran his fingers through Tony's hair. "You can't account for every single possibility."

"I'm a genius, Clint." And the archer was saddened to hear that for the first time since he met the man, that statement wasn't said with pride. "I should have been able to stop it."

"You're still human, Tony."

He was quiet, contemplating what Clint had said, but didn't respond to it. Instead, he continued with his explanation, "They were there when I returned from lunch. Do you remember? Steve made grilled cheese and tomato soup. I could never say no to grilled cheese and tomato soup. I even left the workshop earlier than I wanted to because Jarvis told me he made it."

Clint remembered. Steve has made it purposely to entice Tony to rejoin civilization after he had noticed the engineer hadn't eaten in a while. He did things like that, taking his responsibility as team captain very seriously. He knew what everyone's favorite meals were and when they got too caught in other things, he would make it just to get them to eat something. Clint was already missing him something fierce.

"When I got to the penthouse, I didn't even notice that Jarvis was silent. I had no clue! I had spoken to him in the elevator, telling him to start the shower. I didn't have reason to continue the conversation, you know?"

"I know, Tones. It's not your fault." Clint would keep saying it until he believed him.

"So, I walk in, not noticing that anything is fucking off, like at all. And I get into the shower. I was fucking singing, in a good mood. Thinking about how I wanted to upgrade the next gen of Starkphones. I was oblivious."

Clint hadn't stopped running his fingers consolingly through Tony's hair. "Then what?" 

"I remember stepping out of the stall and grabbing a towel. I was naked. I practically handed myself to him!" Tony's voice was starting to break. "I walked into my bedroom using the towel to dry my hair, bare assed with my face mostly covered." His laugh was sardonic. "All that was missing was the silver platter."

"Hey, hey! Look at me!" Clint leaned up, making Tony tilt his head back to actually see his face. "It's not your fucking fault. Do you understand me, dude? It's not. Your fucking. Fault." Tony's breath hitched. "I'm going to keep saying it until it gets through your think skull. Comprende?" He tapped the top of Tony's head, "Shellhead, you hear me?"

The genius nodded, but didn't look convinced. Clint was more than aware that it would take some time to get him to understand that he did nothing to deserve this. He lay back down, gently guiding Tony's head back to his chest.

They were quiet for so long that Clint wondered if Tony had finally fallen asleep. He wouldn't blame him if he did. But after several minutes of silence broken only by the muted sounds of waves, the smaller man spoke again, his voice so quiet Clint had to strain to hear him.

"One of them grabbed me from behind. He was hard already. I remember thinking, 'Well that's not normal.' Because even though some guy had his arms around me, someone I couldn't see, and I was naked as a jaybird, I still wasn't afraid. You guys were right downstairs." Clint was trying hard not to shake. He had been afraid of that. Absolutely petrified to find out that they were right there and had not a single fucking inclination that Tony was in danger. "I wasn't afraid because I had you guys and I thought I could summon the suit. I had been working on that. But they knew that too. He disabled it. That's when the fear started. At that moment. And then I really did feel how hard he was."

Clint didn't like where this was headed. "What happened next?" He sympathetically coaxed him. 

"He threw me on the bed. My bed. The one I've shared with no one." Tony turned his head and pressed his forehead into Clint's chest, taking a moment to gather himself. When he spoke again, it was almost muffled into the linen shirt. "My head knocked into the headboard. I remember just being dazed for a second. Then hands, rough hands, digging into me. It hurt. I was flipped over onto my back and I felt someone trying to spread my legs apart. And I fought." Abruptly, Tony sat up, leaning over Clint and grabbing his arm, "I fought, Barton, I need you to know that. I don't..." He trailed off. "I don't know why that's important. But I remember thinking, 'I need them to know that I fought. That I went down swinging.'"

Clint felt the warm tears slip from his eyes and roll in fat drops down the side of his face. He hadn't cried since that first night, when the shock of everything overwhelmed him, but hearing this horrendous story? It was devastating. He sat up slowly, intent on making Tony know that it was okay that it still happened. That even though they overpowered him, it didn't mean he was weak. But Tony was speaking again.

"I fought so hard, Clint. I really did. I tried yelling, screaming for help, but it was so utterly pointless. I designed that tower. I designed those rooms, those walls. Nothing was getting through them. And then he was on top of me, and I finally saw his face. Russell fucking Davin. Just as gross in person as he was in the papers. He was naked. Between my legs, holding them apart with his body. He felt so heavy. And Juan had my wrists in a vice grip above my head. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't even begin to believe that I was about to be...to be...that I was about to be raped." He broke down then. Great heaving sobs that twisted his face and wrecked his throat, wailing and coughing and sobbing, and all Clint could do was wrap his arms around him and hold on tightly.

It took a long time for Tony to calm down and Clint was sure he was going to pass out from the exhaustion of how wracked he was. When he was finally able to draw a breath that wasn't laden with tears, the archer began moving him back into a laying position, tugging the blankets around him and preparing to stay awake the whole night if need be, just to help if nightmares or more tears came. So when Tony started talking again, he jumped slightly, caught off guard by the sudden noise. It seemed the whole ordeal needed to come out, like it was suffocating the genius slowly, strangling him from within and until he told it in full, he wouldn't be able to take enough air to fill his already damaged lungs. 

"He barely prepared me. Simon and Miller held my legs open, and I remember screaming myself hoarse as he used his fingers in me. He kept saying how much he loved me, how he'd waited for this moment for so long. That I was his now, and nothing could change that. He kept kissing my body...everywhere. Talking about how beautiful I was, how happy we were going to be together. I remember feeling sick, like I wanted to throw up, but I couldn't. And then he was in me. And it hurt so fucking bad, I couldn't breathe, let alone scream. He just fucked me raw, moaning and sucking on my neck. I felt so gross. And then he said, 'Look at us, fucking with your friends right downstairs. They have no idea, do they?' Like it was some clandestine affair and not fucking rape."

Tony moved so he was in the V of Clint's legs, the intimate positioning meaning nothing between family, despite the atrocious tale being told. Clint pulled a few pillows behind his own back to support them. He was sitting mostly upright, absolutely fine at being used as a human bed. The genius was curled up, half on his side. Still wrapped like a burrito in the blankets. Somehow, his skin was still cold.

"When he finished, he took off the condom (the only time he's ever used one) and tucked it into his pants pocket. They were on my floor like they belonged there. But they didn't, Clint, they fucking didn't!"

"No, man," Clint agreed, "they didn't."

Tony went on like he didn't even hear him, "Then...then he fucking grabs my dick. Just grabs it, like I'm flaccid as fuck, because that hurt so bad. But he doesn't even care. He starts jerking me. And I tried so hard, I didn't want it, I kept saying 'No, no, please don't!' But...but I got hard. Why the fuck did I get hard? I kept thinking, do I secretly want it? But I didn't! I swear I didn't!"

"Tones, that's how the male body works. I know you didn't want it. You couldn't have stopped that. Bro, that's science. Don't blame yourself. You know that, man. You can't control that." So not only did Davin rape him, he made it clear to Tony where the rest of the Avengers were, _and_ he humiliated him. The fact that Tony had any wits left about him at all was a miracle in and of itself.

"He made me come. I moaned. I fucking _moaned!_ "

"You can't control that, you have to understand that, man. You couldn't have controlled that!"

"When he was done, he collected it—my come—and said he was going to keep it." Tony shuddered, "and yet I still couldn't throw up. I wanted to. Like maybe I'd vomit and he'd be grossed out and leave. But I didn't." The desperation in his voice was maddening to hear. If he could, Clint would climb inside the brilliant brain and scrub it clean of the memory, of all of this. "When he came back to the bed, he had a needle. After that I remember nothing. Just that I woke up here, in this bed. In these chains. And my life has been hell since." 

Clint felt like all the air in the room had been sucked out of it. All of this had taken place right above their heads and they hadn't a clue. They still hadn't a clue. Not the rest of the team, anyway. But he knew. He knew that while he was bickering with Nat about who was going to do the dishes, Tony was upstairs living a real-life nightmare. The thought churned in his gut, like a twisted knife in a stab wound.

And though he kept telling Tony that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help but blame himself. They were so close. They could have saved him! What good were the Avengers if they couldn't even help one of their own?

\---

The clock read 6:37am when Clint rolled off the bed to relieve his bladder. He had barely slept at all, flitting in and out of nightmares and sometimes hovering in that place in between awake and asleep. The pressure on his lower abdomen making him finally give up.

At some point during the night, Tony must have kicked the covers off of himself (and Clint too, for that matter) and was shivering lightly. "Idiot," Clint said affectionately, pulling them back over his friend. For a moment, he just stood at the side of the bed, silently watching Tony just breathe. The blue light from the arc reactor casting shadows on the handsome face.

Clint rubbed his eyes, "How the hell did this happen?" he muttered, not talking about the situation itself, but his own reactions.

It was too much for the moment though, and his bladder made itself known again. He winced and turned towards the bathroom, lightly stepping, afraid to wake Tony up, and trying to push the question from his mind. After he washed his hands, he made his way through the room, away from Tony but still able to see him, and onto the balcony. The morning was cool, with a soft breeze that played in his hair.

If he had to choose his favorite spot in this hell hole, this might've been it. It was wide and circular, with a white wicker patio set and two wicker lounges, overlooking the ocean and morning sky, high up enough that Clint could at least pretend it was one of his nests.

Picking one of the lounges, he moved it so he could see into the bedroom and still watch the tides and sat, putting his feet up and just trying to escape for a moment and enjoy the sounds of the ocean. It really was beautiful, a bona fide paradise if he wasn't entrapped here with Tony.

He had too few precious moments of peace before his mind sprung into overdrive. Usually, Clint liked to process things quickly, but piece by piece. In this case, however, he had everything thrown at him all at once.

The question returned.

How the hell did this happen?

Clint liked to think he could be analytical, that he could keep his cool in almost any situation; he always knew that despite what he let others believe, he didn't really have much trouble forging meaningful relationships. It had just been a few years since he allowed that to happen. Of course Natasha was an exception—she always was!—but then he crash landed onto a team of superheroes. There was trouble there, of course, because he never quite considered himself a hero prior, but he was liking the fit of the word more and more lately, as he came to terms with working with others and the good feeling of doing something that really made a difference.

The family aspect was the big surprise. He could have sworn that they all barely tolerated each other at first, but by the time the battle was over in New York and they not only won, but came out of it relatively uninjured, something had shifted. Maybe it was the Shawarma, maybe it was seeing Tony take the fall (literally) for them, or maybe it was just that going through something so incredibly unreal and living to tell had sewn them together in some form of fucked up but still capable quilt.

Having others who understood the nightmares on a personal level really did make all the difference. Not like they talked about it. It was just known. Bags under the eyes, a quicker temper, drowning in caffeine, and staving off food for the day, they all did it and they all knew what it meant when they saw it happening to the others. It was enough to be close to them. To not feel alone.

As the days and weeks passed them by and they came together more and more to keep the world safe, the stitches pulled tighter. It may have stayed there, had Tony not invited them all to live at the tower. Free rent and the best wi-fi in the galaxy were only the tip of what made living there so wonderful. It was like all at once Clint realized how lonely he'd been, and how amazing it was to walk into the common kitchen in the morning and have fresh coffee already made, or a note saying that pancakes were in the microwave. He could sit next to any of them on the couch and either exist there silently as a quiet pillar of support or have that same person to chat with and get advice from.

And if he needed some time alone to recharge, he had his own apartment (and the vents), with his own kitchen (and the vents), in his own personal space (and the vents.).

He loved the vents. Tony kept them clean and they were more spacious than others, though he was sure the engineer had done that for him when he remodeled after New York. He would drop in on Thor (literally!), or pass snacks to Bruce in his lab (so what if they both worshiped Twizzlers, they were adults, they could eat all the candy they wanted!), or scare Steve (He screamed like a girl, how could he not?), or watch Tony work (geniuses were fascinating creatures), or just find a larger section, set up the laptop (and that perfect wi-fi), and binge watch Scrubs with Natasha for the umpteenth time. Of course, after Tony lectured him about fire hazards, they had to remove the bedding.

It took him about a month before he realized that he had finally found himself a proper home. And boy did that scare the shit out of him. He ended up fearing that he'd mess it up and get kicked out, so he became overly neat, quiet as a church mouse, and polite to a fault. It was Tony, actually, who cornered him about a week later, pointing his finger at him and using his best stern voice to say, "Cut the shit, Barton. You're one of us. Deal with it." Two days of messing up what Clint had cleaned, goading him into an argument, and making him almost piss with laughter later, and he accepted that not only was this was real , but he couldn't screw it up worse than any of the others could.

But Tony was like that. He wasn't direct with his support, always a more 'actions speak louder than words' guy, but it nonetheless got the point across.

You're home. Don't worry about it.

It hadn't been prefect, and if Clint were to be honest with himself, he liked it better that way. They all argued, bickered, and fought, but it always ended up okay. With so many strong personalities in one place, it was bound to happen. There were so many more good times: the dinners and the movie nights included, but there were also the nights they just sat up and talked, nursing beers and bullshitting until the sun came up. There was the morning runs with Steve, which were great the first hour, but the whole crew of them would bow out somewhere in Central Park, laughing and racing in the other direction as the soldier yelled after them to "Get back here! I'm not even half finished!" The evenings with Bruce as the scientist taught them to cook. Sparring with Natasha and their secret binge watching, and teaching Thor how to gamble (which he instantly regretted when the god proved himself insanely good at it. Clint still owed him fifty dollars and two weeks of laundry.). And there were the nights in Tony's workshop as the genius taught him about engines and how to rebuild them.

With the thought of the last time he sat in the workshop, Clint stood and leaned against the door frame. He could see Tony better from there, curled up on his side and wrapped so tightly in the blankets only his head popped out.

Clint realized, with sudden jolt, that being wrapped up like that was probably the only time Tony wasn't naked. It was more than warmth for him. It was a cocoon, a hideaway.

He noticed early on that Tony's nakedness didn't bother him save for the awfulness of the situation and that he was forced to be so. Clint knew Tony didn't choose it, and he also knew that Tony needed not only the help, but the comfort of a friendly touch. It wasn't ideal, but then again none of this was. If it was up to Clint, he'd be back at the tower, probably awake and in the kitchen making coffee. He would take a mug down to the workshop and unsuccessfully attempt to get Tony to eat something, and when he refused, Clint would stay down there, goading the genius into letting him take the Audi for a test drive. Then Steve would cook (maybe chicken pot pie this time, it was another of Tony's favorites but also one of Clint's.). They'd sit around the table, making fun of Fury and taking the mickey out of each other. They'd be safe until the Avengers alarm went off again, but until that happened, they'd be okay. Ready to face another day. Alive. Unhurt. Safe.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Clint groaned. That wasn't happening. They were trapped, in this hell, and not for the first time, Clint thought about his own reactions to the entirety of what had transpired. He didn't like that he had broken down so often on the first day. That wasn't him, not even close. But after two months of searching and then finding Tony, he was already close to a breaking point. Learning about the ongoing rapes, the staged conversations, the way Davin had turned Tony's body into his own art...Clint shrugged despite no one seeing him. It was too much. He didn't think he'd ever hit that point again in his life but there he was, watching someone he cared about being dragged through a horrendous ordeal, barely clinging to sanity. He had to help, Clint knew, because no one else could or would and Tony had no one here and, fuck it all, man...he really loved that son of a bitch. He would do anything for all of them. And didn't that beat all?

Tony was shattered. Barely half of who he was before this. Seeing that ate Clint up inside. He was burning with anger and drowning in sadness all at once. It was conflicting. And it hurt. But not as much a seeing Tony laying on the bed, hiding his face as Clint had to prepare him, and not as much as it hurt to sit on the couch, Tony's legs in his lap, trying to clean up the never ending stream of come night after night.

Normally, he would refuse to notice it, but with Tony so broken and no one else around, he let it ride. "This destroyed me." He whispered to the night. "I can't fucking hold anything in because I have no fucking walls left."

Glancing up at the cameras on the balcony, he fought back the urge to defy the rules and curse the bastard out, despite knowing the model they used had no sound. Instead, for the sake of protecting Tony, he turned toward the ocean, walking to the railing and holding himself tightly in the morning air.

"Fuck you, Davin. Fuck you."

\---

The first half of the morning after Tony woke up was spent attempting to coax the genius to eat. It was almost normal, so close to so many of the conversations they had in the tower that Clint felt his heart constrict.

He was also unsuccessful this time. Marietta took the uneaten food away with a pained look. "Will Beautiful Luna not eat? He must keep his strength."

Tony was on the balcony, in the same lounge chair that Clint had been on earlier that morning. He was on his side, letting the sun warm him. "Got no strength left. What's the fucking point?"

Clint traded looks with Marietta. "Tony." He swallowed. "Tony, don't say that."

"I'm cold."

"I know, man." Clint sighed, "Don't give up yet, bro."

Marietta tried handing him a scone and some coffee. "At least this? Something sweet?" Tony just wrapped his arms around himself tighter, it was almost comical with the cuffs.

"I'll take them," Clint said sadly, "I'll get him to eat." He led her back into the room, walking her to the door. "Has he refused food before?"

She nodded, "When Beautiful Luna first came, he would not touch a morsel. Master had the previous caretaker feed him while he watched. He, "she motioned to the doors, "had no choice then. I believe since he had not wanted to be fed again."

"He was always very independent," Clint muttered.

"Caretaker," Marietta said, sotto voce, "make sure that he eats. Master will be unhappy if he learns his beloved is refusing nourishment once again." She paused and went on hurriedly, "He does not ever blame Beautiful Luna. He blames Caretaker. I feel that if something were to happen to you, he will not survive much longer."

"I'll see that eats." Clint's laugh was hollow, "I have experience with this, believe it or not."

She nodded and left. Clint heard all of the locks clicking back into place and let himself sigh, feeling sorry for his own situation, just for a moment, before turning back to the balcony.

"Tones," he said as he stepped outside, "man, you gotta eat something." Kneeling down next to the chair, Clint put his hand lightly on Tony's cheek to get his attention. The sadness in those once warm brown eyes sent lightening through his stomach, like Thor had just charged his hammer and sent the full blast though him.

"Just leave me, Barton. It doesn't matter."

Clint swallowed, "It does matter. And I'm not going anywhere! I'm trapped here just as you, I'm not exactly in a position to leave, man. And even if I could, I'm not leaving you. I'm not just your damn caretaker, I'm your fucking friend. So, no! You don't get to give up!" Tony's eyes drifted away towards the water. "Look at me, Stark! Look at me! We're getting out of this! We're going home! This shit ain't forever, you hear me? Don't you fucking give up on me!"

Begrudgingly, Tony looked away from the ocean and met Clint's eyes. "If you say so."

"Oh, I'm fucking saying so. Watch me, you Iron Fuck, listen to me for once in your damn life! We will leave here. We will go home. The others will find us, and we'll put this bullshit behind us. But in order for that to happen, you need to hang on. You don't give up. You're going to eat your fucking—what the fuck is this anyway?—Blueberry thing and drink your god damn coffee because I'm not dealing with a decaffeinated Tony Stark on top of all this other shit! You hear me, fuckhead?"

Tony was quiet. He stared up at Clint with wide eyes, and the archer was pleased to see that a spark had been reignited within them. "It's a called a scone. Gimme it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is very much a niche fic, so not many are clicking, but I truly could use some encouragement today. So I'm kindly asking for comments. Thank you.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's emotions get the best of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I apologize deeply for the delay in getting this up.
> 
> The truth is that this story is incredibly hard to write and I needed a break from it. 
> 
> I have three more chapters written, but I couldn't bring myself to edit them, so I just kept writing lighter stuff instead. 
> 
> Truthfully, I can't say when this will be finished or how often updates will be, but I do have the next chapter after this ready to go. 
> 
> Also, since I've started this, my writing has improved vastly. I'm getting my mojo back, so to speak, so I may go back and redo the first parts of this. 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this part and many thanks to LadyLanera for the beta. ❤
> 
> Trigger Warnings for noncon and trauma, as usual.

6

Sunday dawned with rain and wind pounding against the glass of the balcony doors and whipping through palm trees. Clint stood at the window closest to the bed, one eye always on Tony but the other glaring through the streaks of rain. Wasn't it fitting, he mused, that his first Sunday on the island would be a grey one. 

It was a quarter past seven, and Clint's mood was sour. They had time before Marietta arrived with breakfast, and though he wanted the company, Tony needed to sleep as late as he could. At least then, he didn't have to deal with the dread of what was to come. With a despondency he didn't know was in him, Clint sighed and let his head rest against the pane; it felt cool against his skin. How many would it be this week? How many men would use Tony's body? Men that pushed drugs, tore apart families, murdered people in cold blood. Drug runners. Hit men. Sleazy bosses in tacky suits and gold chains. These were the type of men that would put their hands on Tony. That would force themselves inside of him. Leave him for Clint to clean up and put back together like it was nothing at all, like he hadn't been fucking retching the night before when he found a bite mark on the inside of Tony's thigh, like this wasn't causing Clint's stability and resolve to disintegrate into less than sand.

For the first time in almost a week, Clint Barton felt like hope was beyond their reach.

Outside the window, lightning sparked, a cool and jagged streak across the ocean. It flashed in Clint's eyes and the anger there was amplified. He had surreptitiously spent the better part of the previous days and nights searching the balcony and windows for weaknesses and paths down. Anything to stop Tony from facing another Sunday.

But just as Juan had said that first day, just as Tony kept telling him, there was no way out that didn't involve falling onto the sharp rocks and boulders artfully placed at the base of the estate. They were there to deter escape, that was easy enough to figure out. And it worked. 

They were still trapped. And it was Sunday. 

And nothing Clint could do would stop it from coming. 

Turning from the storm raging outside, he lifted the blankets and climbed beneath them, slipping his arm under Tony and pulling him close. The genius barely stirred, but Clint savored the warmth he felt from Tony's skin. It was extraordinarily difficult to keep him warm, but the blankets, tucked around his petite frame helped.

Marietta had told him just the day before that Davin kept the estate at sixty degrees, and while that didn't bother Clint so much, Tony, with being naked and weakened, shivered continuously. The archer prayed for another day like the second where it was cool enough to turn the air off. He had briefly toyed with the idea of letting Tony wear his second set of linen pants at least, but the maid quickly squashed it. 

_ "Master could see on the cameras if he goes to the balcony, or he could enter at any moment!" She had whispered so Tony, who was in the library, couldn't overhear. "It is in the rules. He must remain naked so that he is always on display." _

_ "He's not a piece of artwork in a freaking museum!" Clint had hissed back.  _

_ Marietta looked sad. "To Master, he is." _

That had ended that. If they were going to get out of this alive, Clint and Tony needed to play by the rules. It was their only chance at surviving this. 

Absentmindedly, Clint touched his cheek where Davin had backhanded him on the second day. It was still sore, but Tony had insisted, every morning after the bastard left, on reapplying the bruise balm. It was healing well. The same couldn't be said for Tony's bruises. Clint steadfastly applied the cream day after day, but new marks appeared quicker than the old ones vanished, his skin dotted with the ghosts of harsh fingertips.

Sleep pulled Clint under. The last he remembered, before his eyes slipped closed, was feeling the softly raised hills of the scars on Tony's back. 

\---

"Caretaker? Caretaker, it is time to wake up." Marietta was by the side of the bed, slightly leaning over him. Her hair was pulled into a bun, but a few strands had come loose, swaying forward and catching the light. 

"Hmm," Clint answered, still tired and not quite ready to move. "Time's it?" He was on his side, Tony's face pressed into his collar. 

"8:15, Caretaker. I advise you eat breakfast quickly and begin to prepare Beautiful Luna no later than 9 o'clock."

At that, Clint winced, fully awake whether he liked it or not. He tried, he really did, to wake Tony up with a smile or a joke. But every time he thought he had the words planned out just right, they fell away. Resigned, he lightly rubbed Tony's arm. "Hey, Tones." Clint was surprised at the shake in his voice. "C'mon, dude. Time to wake up."

The genius' eyes popped open, widening for a second, like he still couldn't believe Clint was there, and edging into a smile before falling, his face crumbling ever so slightly. The play of emotions flickering across his face hurting Clint's resolve. "It's Sunday."

Clint swallowed. "Yeah, man. It's Sunday."

Tony pushed up so he was sitting on his side, the blankets slipping down his frame so they pooled at his left hip. One of the bruises from the night before was deeper than usual; it's hue an angry purple. He shivered. "I'm cold."

It was something Tony said a lot and Clint was learning the meaning behind the words. He wasn't just saying that he felt chilly, he was saying that he was scared, he was uncomfortable, he was hurting… It was the only way he knew to comfortably give voice to his well-being.

"Beautiful Luna should have his breakfast," Marietta was saying, as she closed the curtains against the storm. The sound of the hangers raking along the rod harsh in the quiet of the morning. 

"Can Beautiful Luna make his own decisions for once!" Clint snapped, and immediately regretted it. He wilted, looking contrite. "I'm sorry, Marietta. You've been nothing but helpful, I just..." he trailed off, dropping his head into his hands. 

"You are fine, Caretaker. I will take my leave now." She gave him a sad, knowing smile. 

"Thank you, Marietta. Really."

She nodded and left and Clint guiltily rubbed the back of his neck. He turned back to the bed where Tony sat, legs pretzeled and blankets wrapped around his waist. "She means well."

"I know," Clint said quietly. "It's just this whole bullshit situation..." He sighed in frustration. "Come on, let's eat."

"I'll be right there," Tony spoke, gingerly standing. "Need to pee." He gestured toward the bathroom, walked in, shutting the door behind him. Clint was hard pressed not to notice the way his walk was off, how he gingerly stepped so he didn't hurt.

Squeezing his eyes shot, just for a moment, Clint turned towards the table. It was harder today than it had been, but he forced his legs to move, to carry him to what honestly felt like a last meal. Breakfast was oatmeal and fruit, orange juice and coffee. He stared at the offending bowl, like maybe if he glared enough, it would turn into bacon. 

"I get hearty meals, as he calls them, on Sundays." Clint jumped. He hadn't heard Tony leave the bathroom. 

His hand flipped wildly at the table. "How the fuck is this hearty?"

Tony shrugged. "It's carbs. I don't get many carbs. There's toast too, in that little metal box. And butter."

"What's with the carb evasion anyway? I'd kill for a fucking pizza."

Tony sat and scooted his chair close to the table. "My diet is strict. It's meant to keep me healthy. Too many carbs aren't good for you. So I don't get many carbs. I also don't get much sugar, at least not processed sugar, or dairy, or soy." He shrugged again, his face impassive. "I don't understand that last one. But you'll notice when we get milk, it's non-dairy, usually coconut milk. The sugar for the coffee?" He picked up a packet. "Stevia."

"Well, that's fucking annoying."

For the third time, Tony shrugged. Like he had no explanation, but felt the need to try and clarify, and that hurt. Tony shouldn't feel the need to explain. This wasn't his fucking fault. "I guess I'm just happy to be eating at all."

Clint sat with a plop, glaring down at the bowl in front of him. "I hate oatmeal. There were those blueberry things the other day, can't I have that?"

Tony shook his head, looking apologetic. "That's a once in a while treat. Marietta usually saves it for when I don't want to eat. She pulls it out of nowhere like a fucking cookie." Tony raised his voice a few pitches and took on her accent, "Look, Beautiful Luna! Who's a good boy!?"

Clint snorted. "It was fucking delicious."

He received a small smile from Tony. But as soon as it graced his face, it was gone. "Yeah," Tony said instead, spooning some of the oatmeal into his mouth and looking away over Clint's shoulder.

"Tony." He started, but felt his throat constrict. He took a swallow of orange juice and coughed. "Tones." But Tony was lost again. Nothing had even been said to set him off this time, just the fact that it was Sunday. But what could Clint do? He couldn't drag him back from wherever he went when he got lost. That was cruel. If it helped Tony cope, if it got him away from that room for just a little while, could the archer really be the one to force him back? 

Clint had meant what he had snapped at Marietta, even if it wasn't meant for her personally. Tony's life was so controlled by Davin, every detail, every move he made. For someone he knew that had major authority issues to begin with, this control was not only frightening, but insulting. But that was the point, wasn't it? Decorating Tony, changing his name, shaving the beard, controlling his every move...Davin was stripping Tony of his identity. 

The burn of the coffee felt good in his throat. Clint didn't fully understand it, but he felt  _ so _ angry.It was all encompassing, all at once. There was no sadness, no desperation. Just complete righteous anger.  _ How dare he!  _ Clint thought. How dare he take someone like Tony, someone so wholly and fully himself--an original!--and even  _ attempt _ to erase that uniqueness. 

A startled yelp across the table snapped Clint back to the present. "What?" he asked, studying Tony's frightened face. He was back from wherever he had been, and it was Clint's fault. It took him a minute to see it. To follow Tony's eyes down to his own hand, where he had slammed the mug down so hard it had cracked. Coffee spilled in a pool on the table, the brown dirtying the white of the tablecloth. "Oh. Shit. Sorry."

"You...you okay, Barton?"

Clint blinked. Still staring at the broken coffee cup. "Uh. Yeah."

He knew Tony saw right through him. Knew that his tension was vibrating through the room. 

He has to change the subject, but the only thing he could do was blurt out, "I thought our bodies get used to things like anal sex? Why does it still hurt?" Immediately, he snapped his eyes shut. "Fuck, Tony, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean… I just… I'm sorry."

Tony graced him with a forgiving smile. "It's a fair question. I think it's because I don't want it, and I get so tense. I can't make my body relax at all through it." He played with the oatmeal on the bowl, stirring it and pushing it around. His eyes dropped, unable to meet Clint's. "It's getting better. When I get lost, my body can relax. So it's not hurting as much anymore."

And didn't that just beat all? 

\---

The gold paint shimmered in the most annoying way. It got stuck under Clint's nails and he ended up digging into them until he hurt himself just to try and get it out, like the specks of golden cream were only there to remind him of what Tony had to do. So he dug and picked and grabbed anything small enough to get under his nails in an attempt to scoop it out. He made himself bleed more times than he could count over the past few days. 

So, when Tony said to get the silver paint instead, he was momentarily happy to not have to deal with the gold. But it was the same shit. It was still going to be used to decorate a rape victim. 

"On Sundays, use the silver. The gold isn't for his business associates."

Clint felt his blood start to boil. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Tony winced, his head dipping in shame. "Gold is Davin's thing."

He didn't know why this, of everything, was what set him off. "Gold is...Gold is fucking  _ what? _ "

"You know…" Tony shrunk back a bit. He was kneeling on the bed after being stretched, picking through a handful of necklaces Clint had grabbed from the draw without looking. "Davin likes gold. But when he does business, it's silver, because the gold is just for him and his right hand men." 

Tony had managed to not get lost yet, which also bothered Clint. If he wasn't lost, how was he going to handle Sunday? He was infuriated. It was too early, maybe that was why. Tony's brain knew to lose itself in the evening. Not at 10 in the morning. That had to be it? Right? Was it wrong for Clint to hope… Never mind. 

Clint shut the drawer harder than he intended. "Just for him? That's fucking disgusting."

Tony looked down, his face coloring. He plucked a string of pearls and a diamond lined necklace and looped them over his head. Davin liked the pearls the best and that just pissed off Clint even more. He seethed for a quick minute, his body shaking, before climbing onto the bed to apply the paint. The cap was unscrewed with more force than necessary, flinging out of Clint's hands and landing on the floor with a splatter. "Fucking hell!" he swore, not bothering to pick it up, instead scooping out a hefty amount and applying it to the genius' chest harder than he should have; Tony cried out as the arc reactor was jostled harshly, his body curling in on itself in an attempt to protect himself.

"Fuck! Shit!" Closing his eyes, Clint took a breath, "I'm sorry, just..."

"It's okay." But Tony's voice was tiny. Hurt. Clint continued with gentler hands, finishing by lightly dusting Tony's cheeks with the leftover paint on his hand, careful not to get too close to his eyes, which, he noticed, were filled with tears not yet spilling over. 

And that just snapped him. "You know what?" He jumped off the bed and snatched the cap from the floor, screwing it on angrily. "I'm so fucking done. This is fucking atrocious!" Tony jolted at his tone. "This fucking, goddamn piece of FUCKING SHIT!" And the jar sailed across the room, hitting the wall with a sickening crack, but not breaking. "Fuck him! Fuck him and his fucked up fucking sick obsession with you!"

Tony was cowering. Had Clint not been seeing through a thick curtain of red, he would have noticed. He would have seen Tony's wide eyes and the way he was shaking, the way he tried to wrap his arms around his chest to protect the arc reactor, but couldn't because of the chains. His hands instead moving to cover his biggest weakness. 

Ripping open the dresser again, Clint grabbed whatever wrap was laying on top. "I swear on all things fucking holy and hell, I'm going to fucking skewer him! I'm going to rip their fucking dicks off!" He whipped around, angrily flapping the wrap open and not seeing the absolute terror in Tony's eyes, or the way his arms were coming up in defence above his head to protect his face and not just the reactor, two months of torture bleeding out through his petrified actions.

Tony stared back as Clint held out the offending wrap they both knew wouldn't be returning. His breathing was labored with panic, Clint glaring the other way not seeing as Tony started to hyperventilate. His own chest heaving in absolute disgust. When Tony didn't take the wrap, Clint waved his arm impatiently, the blue and silver flimsy piece of fabric wildly thrashing like a flag.

Tony was nothing but an object to them,  _ the fucking pigs.  _ Like he was a fucking present they could all unwrap. A gift, something to be owned and discarded… It was sick and fucked up and completely...

"N-not that one," Tony stated quietly, his arms still partially raised. His voice cut through the cloud of dust in Clint's mind.

"What?" Clint's head shook heatedly, frustrated beyond all. Like it mattered what sort of wrap he wore. It always would end the same stupid way. Tony broken. Tony crying. Clint having to--to-- "Come on, man! Let's get this over with." He took a step towards the genius, yanking him up by his upper arm. His fingers curling hard into the muscle, a nail slipping off the gold cuff and biting into the tanned skin. "Quit dicking around here. We don't have much time. Or--fuck--any of it. Goddamn--I hate this fucking day!"

A whimper echoed through the archer's mind, the sound so pained and sorrowful it instantaneously snapped him back. His fury melted like snow in summer. And that's when he realized. He has fucked up.  _ Tony! Oh, God, Tony! _ His eyes widened before he yanked his hand back, burned by the harsh scalding reality of what he had just done. A slight trickle of blood dripped from where his nail had cut into the already molested skin, dripping down the curve of the muscle. 

"Fuck! Tony, man--fuck! I'm sorry. Damn it! Are you okay?" He looked him over, his chest clenching with the weight of his fury and the damning presence of guilt. "Tony?"

But Tony didn't answer. He had fallen back onto the bed and bolted to the other side, collapsing in on himself, trying to insulate his body from blows that weren't coming. His breath was ragged and the sounds he was making...the whimpers came out like an injured animal, a pain filled keening, coalesced with not enough air, panic, and outright fear. 

He never wanted to hear that sound ever again.

"Oh, God," Clint wailed, "Oh, fuck. What did I do? Oh, Tony. Tones. Oh my God, please, please, I'm sorry!" 

Tony was shaking. As he tentatively reached out across the bed, Tony let out a cry and turned away from him, shielding his face, exposing his back and those scars. Those horrifying scars. Lines whipped across his back, punishment from attempting freedom. 

Fat tears were dripping from Clint's eyes. The shame rolled through him, curving up and around his shoulders and cascading down his back, pooling in his stomach, and laying there like a stone. Hard. Cold. Unforgiving. With heavy legs, Clint rounded the bed and bent down to look into Tony's face, but his eyes were clenched shut. 

"Tones. Please look at me."

Tony shook his head vigorously. It was childlike; a toddler saying no to an adult trying to get him onto a scary ride at an amusement park, the trust under the fear barely visible. 

Gently, Clint placed his hands above Tony's waist, and guided him up onto his feet. He was careful. Slow. Deliberate. Gingerly reaching around to tie the wrap. Tony was still shaking; his eyes still tightly closed. But Clint had no words to say. Nothing could take back his anger. Nothing could undo the pain he caused. 

He wetted a washcloth and cleaned up the line of blood. The cut was small, barely noticeable unless it was looked for, already dry. Clint sat and tugged Tony down next to him, wrapping his arms around him in an apologetic hug. Tony didn't fight him, just went willingly into his arms. Stiff. Guarded. Still frightened. 

"I have a temper," the archer whispered. "That's no excuse, man, I know. I let it get the best of me. You did nothing wrong. Tony, please," he begged, "please listen to me. I don't know if I've ever been more sorry for anything in my life." Clint's left hand cradled the back of Tony's head, trembling. "If I could take it all back..." he didn't finish his thought. He couldn't take it back. It was out there, dangling in front of them like a fishing hook, ready to snag and drag them away. 

Softly, he kissed Tony's head. A small act of love for a brother. He hoped it displayed his guilt and his affection, wished beyond anything that it eased Tony's terror. He had enough to be afraid of without also being apprehensive of the one person who was supposed to be caring for him. 

"Please, Tony," he began again. Tony had to understand, had to forgive him before--

The knock was abrupt. As was the clanging of locks. Clint couldn't stop it. He jolted and clung to Tony tighter. "Tony!"

"No, no, no, no!" The smaller man cried, his shaking continuing. His body tightened in fear, rocking slowly, a last ditch attempt at self soothing.

"No, Tony!" He couldn't be taken yet! He couldn't be ripped from him with more anguish than usual. He needed to understand--had to!--that Clint didn't want to hurt him. That he wasn't angry at Tony, he was pissed at Davin. At his goons. At the whole fucked up situation. He could never--would never!--be angry with Tony! 

Juan stood over them, a long shadow, like Death coming for a soul. "Give me Luna."

The desperation Clint felt encompassed him, driving away all sense of self preservation. "Don't, please! Don't take him!"

"Know your place, Caretaker!" Hands grabbed Clint by the hair, dragging him off the bed, forcing him to let go of Tony, lest he took the smaller man down with him. He was thrown to the floor. "You do not give the orders!" The backhand sent Clint flying. His head landed with a thunk against the hardwood, and by the time the stars subsided enough and he was able to sit up, Juan had Tony in his arms and was almost to the door. 

"No!" Clint weakly cried out. He pulled himself to his knees but the wave of dizziness sent him back down, hands crashing against the floor. "Tony!" Slamming a fist against the wood, he tried to drag himself towards the door, but the nausea hit fast and hard and he retched, gagging on stomach acid. 

Juan turned in the doorway to face him. The shadows of the wooden frame made him look more like a monster than he ever did. Beside him, holding the door open, was Simon, a giant looming over a village, ready to crush anyone who dared get in his way.

Juan snarled, baring his yellow teeth.

"His name is Luna." And the door slammed shut.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll get the next one up pronto! It's all set to go. Again, I apologize for the delay!


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint apologizes, but first he faces a new problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to LadyLanera for the beta.

7

The smell of varnish kept Clint grounded. He lay in a crumpled heap, spittle pooling on the floor as the concussion weaved through his body, the vomit finally expelling forcefully up his throat, leaving the remains of oatmeal and toast dripping down the side of his chin and mingling with the smell of wood polish. He wished for unconsciousness. For darkness. He wished for death. But all he could do was breath through his mouth and listen to the echoes the waves made, each ebb and flow sounding more and more like Juan's greasy voice.  _ His name is Luna, his name is Luna, his name is Luna. _

**His name is Luna.**

For the first time, the all encompassing gravity of their predicament pummeled into him. There was no hope. Nothing short of the others rescuing them, and he knew that was impossible. Unless they could crawl inside his head and see his exact thought process, he and Tony were trapped. The weight of hopelessness was crushing him, flattening his resolve, his confidence. 

And Clint let himself sob. He let it all go with no one to witness it. Not like he cried when he first had to prepare Tony, not like the tears that fell when he wrecked himself with guilt over his anger. But pure despair. Wailing, screaming, pounding fists; the throbs of pain from his head jackhammering through his skull like a punishment for being foolish. For being human. 

Steve would never have let this happen. Thor would never have been caught. Bruce and Natasha could have found a way out. They would have been better at protecting Tony. Not like him. Fallible. Useless. Unworthy of the trust Tony had shown him. 

All Clint could do was lay on the floor and commiserate each and every mistake while Tony was gang-raped, while criminals fucked every last drop of innocence from his body. 

He could only lay in his own filth and break down. A tiny apocalypse that shook his own world, but no one else knew was even occurring. Insignificant and earth shattering all at once. Pathetic. Unholy. Futile.

* * *

  
  


"Caretaker?" It was Marietta. Clint had expended himself, not sure how much time had passed and still on the hardwood floor, his breath catching and his eyes stinging from the salt in his tears. He flicked his eyes up to her. "Come, Caretaker. Let us get you cleaned up." 

Slowly, he shook his head. "Just leave me."

"You are no use to Beautiful Luna like this."

Clint laughed dryly. "I'm no use to him anyway."

She bent forwards, hooking her hands under his arms and hefting him up with a surprising strength. He settled on his own two feet. "None of that, Caretaker. He loves you. He is holding on for you."

Clint couldn't meet her eyes. He felt the shame burning up his neck, an intrusive thought pulling out from behind his subconscious. "Maybe it's better if he goes. All I do is hurt him. And-" He swallowed a choking sob, trying so hard not to break down. Again. "And how can he possibly come back from this? How could he even live the rest of his life, even if we did escape, with this much...with this much trauma?" His gaze lifted and he met her soft brown eyes. "Wouldn't it be kinder if he died?"

"You do not mean that!" She admonished, her tone harsh in reprimand. "Death is never the solution, Caretaker! Your love for him will be what saves him in the end." She nodded once, steadily. So sure of what she was saying.

"Will it?" He threw his arms out in consternation. "Because from where I'm standing, all I keep doing is somehow hurting him more." Clint looked at her intensely, his breathing picking up speed. "I was so angry this morning. I hurt him..I didn't mean to, but I did!"

"You are not impervious, Caretaker!" She grabbed his arm and dragged him into the bathroom, pulling his soiled shirt off of him and tossing it into the laundry bin. "You know that others would not have made it this far. You are stronger than you think." Gently, she used a washcloth to clean his face and neck, easing around the new bruise blossoming on his cheek. "Go. Shower. I have your lunch and I am here to straighten up. Your clean clothes I will leave on the counter." Clint stared at her blankly. Unsure of what to do. She sighed and turned the shower on. "Do not make me strip you." 

He shook his head, "Not necessary." He chuckled half-heartedly, appreciating her attempt at honor but unable to lift his mood. "I don't want him to die, you know. I just think it would be kinder if he did."

"Do not let him know that." She paused, tilting her head and weighing her next words. "You may be right. But that is not your decision. His road is long, and it will not be easy. But it is worth it, no?" Gently, she steered him towards the shower, giving him a little push. "He is worth saving, is he not? Otherwise, you would not feel as you do."

Clint was quiet at that, eyes downcast in shame. Of course Tony was worth saving. He was worth it all. Every ounce of pain Clint felt, all the tears shed, none of it would mean anything without him. The truth was that Tony was like the sun; brightness that was always there, even on the cloudy days, worth keeping, worth loving, even when the storms blocked the rays of light. Clint had to believe that the weather would clear at some point. He had to hang on to whatever hope he could. Because Marietta was right: Tony was worth saving. And he needed hope in order to attain that. 

Marietta gave him a tight smile and left him to it. It took Clint several moments before he shut the door and took off the linen pants. His boxers had disappeared the first time he had sent them to be washed, and he knew it was all part of Davin's sick game. Pity, because he really liked them; they had little arrows on them, a gag gift from Bruce for his last birthday.  _ God, I miss them. _

The heat of the water felt wonderful on his back. He braced his hands on the wall and let it pound out the tension, sighing deeply. His muscles clenching and unclenching as he worked out the stress. 

Hope. He had to keep hope. Once he lost it, things like what had transpired that morning happened. And that was beyond detrimental. It was harmful to everything they were working towards, namely freedom. At that moment Tony was being forcefully taken and instead of knowing that he at least had one person waiting for him to care and love him, he probably felt nothing but trepidation at the thought of seeing Clint again. The brusque treatment and furious words rolling through his brain like they were in Clint's. Only he had to deal with sexual abuse on top of that. How was that fair? Clint wasn't the one that has to deal with this, not like Tony. 

No. Clint had to rectify this.  _ He had to _ . He needed to be someone Tony could count on. A stronghold, someone to help weather the storm with, sturdy and consistent. He absolutely had to keep a good humor, to use jokes to help Tony feel lighter, if only for a tiny instant, insignificant or no. Tony had to feel as secure as possible, and it was up to Clint to provide that for him. 

The anger was unacceptable. He could seethe in private, of course. But he needed an outlet. Something to do when Tony was gone to expel the fury. A way to keep it from spilling over when Tony was near so he didn't hurt him again. And Clint  _ was _ fucking livid. His insides burned with complete hatred for Davin, a twisted, mauling, ugly hatred. One that was bound to eat him up if he didn't find a way to let it free. 

As Clint washed his hair and body, he let all thought go. He was centering himself, readying his mind to deal with the aftermath of not only Sunday, but his own actions. The loofah scrubbed away the lingering vomit and the stench of guilt, the water baptizing him anew. He let it wash away the mistakes, at least outwardly. He would keep it inside a little locked box in his brain, and only let it out when he knew Tony wouldn't be harmed by it. 

Compartmentalization. Categorically dividing his emotions into what was pragmatic and what was pernicious. It was Spy Training 101. He could do this. He  _ would _ do this.  _ Tony depended on him _ . 

Scrubbing his face, Clint let the water rinse him, the soapy bubbles draining and the lingering scent of eucalyptus circling him. He watched as the drain emptied, turning off the water and following the swirl of it as it fell away. 

The steam had fogged the mirror by the time Clint stepped from the large stone shower. He used his hand to wipe it clean, disturbed by the distorted image of his face staring back at him. The scruff had grown in, giving him an older, almost tired look. There was a razor for his use, but he hadn't touched it. Too worn to care about his own upkeep aside from showering daily. All his focus was on Tony's prep and hygiene, things he did to keep Davin happy so neither he nor Tony would feel that wrath. But it was a stranger that was looking back at him. Tony had to see that too, and it wasn't helping matters.

Clint did undercover almost too well. He knew he could act the part of the stable caretaker Tony required. So, he grabbed the expensive cream and shaved, bringing his face back to the familiar one the genius was used to. There were still bags under his eyes, and the bruise of course, but it was better. The lotion he rubbed onto Tony's skin daily felt like heaven on his own fatigued face and body, and it helped to invigorate him. Like putty sealing cracks in a wall long neglected. 

He pulled on the shirt and pants, tying the drawstring and rubbing some of the gel Tony used into his hair. When he brushed his teeth, he used the mouthwash as well. Falling back into the dental hygiene he was so adamant about before this fiasco. Physically, he felt more like himself. He prayed it was enough to fool Tony.

He was clean. But for how long? 

The scent of Pinesole accosted his nose when he left the bathroom. Marietta was mopping the floors. She had tied an apron around her waist, and a few bottles hung from the pockets, holding two rags in place. 

"Do you clean every Sunday?"

She looked up. "We are looking handsome today, Caretaker." Clint let himself blush, just a little. "Yes, on Sundays is when I clean the room. I am almost done." She gestured to the set table, "Your lunch is set. Beautiful Luna will not be back until after three. There will be no afternoon tea, but I have brought a snack for you to give him." She said, replacing the mop in the bucket, and pulling off her rubber gloves. From her cart, she pulled out two blueberry scones and placed them on the table. "One for you as well. And something to drink," she said, wiggling a thermos. "Coffee. With actual milk!"

Clint graced her with a smile. "From a real cow?"

"I believe her name is Betsy."

He laughed loudly. Did Marietta know just how much he appreciated her? She had quite literally picked him up off the floor, cleaned him up as well as the mess he made, and above all, she made him laugh; a real, genuine laugh. She was the type of strong he longed to be.

"Thank you."  _ For everything. _

"You are most welcome, Caretaker. I have ice for your head as well."

His brow furrowed. "How did you know?"

Her smile was coy, "The maids know everything." She placed the ice on the table. "For after you eat, and take these as well." She placed a bottle of Tylenol next to the pack. "Do not go to sleep, Caretaker. You understand, you hit your head very hard."

"I know. Not my first concussion. Probably not my last either."

"You have dangerous work, you and Beautiful Luna. Maybe one day you can go back to it."

Clint swallowed. "We will." The words came out with more confidence than he felt.

"Enjoy your lunch, Caretaker." She placed her hand on his arm, a quick soothing action, and left. 

In front of him was only one place setting, and he had to breathe for a moment to counter the emotions. One place setting. Because Tony wouldn't be there to eat it.

The meal, though, was not at all what he expected.  _ Feijoada _ . If he remembered correctly. A Brazilian stew. Hearty. Fattening. Something to put meat on your bones. There was thick, crusty bread as well. And  _ Guaraná _ . Things he remembered eating and drinking on his last mission to Brazil. This wasn't a lunch meant for Tony. It wasn't meant to keep him healthy; it was meant to comfort. Clint was honest to God, truly thankful for Marietta. He felt badly that Tony couldn't enjoy the stew and the sugary drink, but there were those delectable blueberry things and coffee to look forward to. 

He would apologize and put Tony back together. And he would coax him to eat. He would make sure that the rest of the day, at the very least, was filled with as much contentment as they could have, all things considered.

When Clint Barton made a promise, he fucking kept it. 

* * *

The rain didn't let up. Clint stood at the balcony doors, hours later, watching the angry waves beat against the shoreline. It was a quarter after three and Tony was due back at any moment. 

Lined up on the coffee table were a stack of fresh towels, washcloths, and a basin filled with soapy water that Marietta had dropped off. On the bedside table was the bruise cream and the Vaseline, and more towels and washcloths. The amoxicillin sat next to the water decanter, ready for Tony's dosage. Clint had become a professional at this, and that thought disturbed him. 

_ Just add it to my resume. _ He thought, sourly. International spy, aerialist, expert archer, superhero...well versed in rape aftercare.  _ Oh goody. _

Turning away from the storm, he perched himself on the arm of the couch, facing the door. There was nothing left to do but wait. He rested his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around them, and blowing air through his pursed lips. The waiting was the worst. With nothing to busy himself with, Clint was stuck counting seconds until Tony was unkindly dumped onto the couch by Simon or Miller, both having no use for him once they had been bodily satisfied. The archer was sure if Davin saw how they treated his  _ intelligent moon _ they would both be dead before Tony's body hit the cushions.

It was several more minutes until the door opened, Miller striding in with Tony in his arms. Tony's cuffed hands hung to the side by his left hip, the chain connecting them straining as they swung slightly. His head hung back, lolling side to side, and his eyes were glossed over, half closed. He looked dead, and if it wasn't for the blue light still shining in his chest, Clint would have believed he was. 

"He's--what?! What did you do?!" Clint jumped up.

"He's fine." Miller snapped gruffly, dropping Tony onto the couch, his legs splayed open, one heel hitting the floor. Clint had to repress a cry when he saw the amount of come caked in between his legs. "He freaked, so we just gave him some of the good shit."

The archer was on his knees in an instant, gently lifting the leg that had fallen and placing it back onto the cushion. "The good shit? What the fuck is the good shit?" He whispered harshly, as not to disturb Tony who seemed to be flitting in and out of consciousness, his eyes opening and closing listlessly. 

Miller glared, his fist curling and raising threateningly. "Watch your tone, Caretaker."

Biting his tongue, Clint dropped his head down, trying to look chastised enough to gain information. 

"That's better. Fucking relax. We only just dosed him, so fucking chill." His grin was lascivious. "We like him awake when we fuck him."

Clint couldn't help the choke that came out. He managed to stop the tears, barely. "What did you give him?"

"He gets tested this week. Doc'll be here soon."

"Tested? What?" Clint blinked in confusion, raising his head, but before he could get an answer, another man strode into the room. Once, he may have been handsome, but too many days in the sun and too many drugs has weathered his face into something pinched and leathery. He had pot-marks in his cheeks and two of his teeth were missing, his black hair greasy and hanging limply around sunken in grey eyes. 

"Move," he said curtly, lifting his foot and pressing it against Clint's shoulder. 

"Hey! OW!" 

"You're in the way, Caretaker." He pressed his foot harder, forcing Clint backwards over his calves. "I said move!" Clint fell back onto his bottom.

_ Dick! _ He swore to himself, scooting out of the way of the boot. "Who are you? What are you doing to him, no, wait! Don't touch him!" He arm shot out, a desperate attempt to protect Tony.

Miller grabbed Clint's upper bicep tightly, jerking it up and dragging him away. "One more word and I'll slit your throat."

"You may call me Doctor Willis." The new man swiped the towels clean off the coffee table, sending them cascading to the floor, and hovered by the basin before thinking better of it and pulling out a pen to nudge it further away from him. "Next time, make sure I have space. This is much more important than whatever  _ you _ were doing." Fear gripped Clint's heart as Doctor Willis unrolled a worn cloth roll case, exposing instruments that he could have sworn should have been wrapped in plastic. The winged infusion set, thankfully was. He placed it next to two serum tubes. Directly on the table.

Clint tried to speak, but Miller hushed him with a glare. "Luna gets checked every two weeks for STDs."

_ Oh. My. God. Oh my god! _ Clint hadn't even thought of that. But no one seemed concerned with using a condom with Tony. Of fucking course sexually transmitted diseases were a worry! He felt the blood drain from his face and couldn't help the visual of the water swirling from the shower from popping up in his mind.

Doctor Willis plucked an alcohol wipe from his strangely white and pristine lab coat (was he even a doctor at all?). "I'll swab him next week during his check up, of course, but he's disgustingly filthy right now." Snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves, he wrapped a large orange rubber-band around Tony's bicep, tapping the crook of Tony's arm before cleaning it with the wipe. 

Tony's head rolled to the side, spit dribbling from his lips. He made a small sound, a gurgle mixed with a moan. Clint tried to keep his breathing even and asked, "Why drug him?"

Doctor Willis' speaking voice was ridiculously fake. He spoke like he wanted people to think he was classy and posh. He wasn't. "He does not react well to having blood drawn after lovemaking." Clint tried really hard not to snap at that. "The opium makes him compliant enough to draw the blood rather easily. Worry not, Caretaker," he said, glancing at Clint's appalled face, "I only administer enough to get these results. Too much and he may die. Or get addicted. Russell really rather prefers he have all his, say, faculties about him." The corners of Willis' lips curled up into something evil and frightening. 

He made quick work of the butterfly needle, snapping the rubber band off as he filed the tubes. Clint inched around so he could cup Tony's face, intent on seeing just how out of it he was. Neither of the other men moved to stop him. Tony's pupils were blown wide and his skin flushed and warm.

With a sharpie, Doctor Willis spelled out 'Luna' on both serum vials and handed them to Miller. "All done." He announced, and roughly yanked the needle from Tony's arm, grinning when Tony winced, even in his drug induced haze. He pressed cotton to the hole and taped over it tightly. Too tightly, Clint saw. Standing, he collected his supplies. "I will see Luna at our regular time. Seven in the morning on Tuesday. Make sure that he fasts. Twelve hours, Caretaker. And make sure he's clean."

Everything Clint had just worked out within himself, the resolve and the strength he had tried to cultivate, all of it was starting to crumble. Clint had to squeeze his eyes shut and take steady breaths to push the anger and panic back down.  _ What else? _ He thought,  _ What else could they be doing to him? _

Doctor Willis stood. "I honestly hate when he's dirty." He looked disgusted, his eyes filled with repulsion at Tony, like it was  _ his _ fault for being filthy. Clint wanted to hit him. "Why do you think I insist on going first after Russell when I'm here?" He said, looking at Miller. 

Miller shrugged. "All the same to me. It's a hole."

Digging his nails into his palm, Clint counted slowly in his head.  _ 1...2...3...4 Just leave already. 5...6...7...8... _

With a smirk, Doctor Willis turned to Clint. "Tell me, Caretaker, you've known him for how long now? Don't you ever want to tap that?" Clint pressed his face into the cushion, next to Tony's head. "When he's not filthy, he is rather exquisite to look at. I've always thought so." He chuckled, "Or have you already fucked his ass? Took him right after one of your world saving battles?" The pressure in Clint's chest was building. "I bet you all did." 

_ 9… _ "No."

"What's that, Caretaker?"

_ 10… _ "No! None of us, we wouldn't, not without...we're a fucking family!"

Doctor Willis laughed outright. "Sure thing." He rolled up his case and nodded to Miller. They both left laughing, shooting glances over their shoulders. 

Once the door clicked shut, he let out the breath he was holding, and picked his head up, studying Tony. Taking his arm gently into his hands, he worked the bandage loose and pressed it back down. The white skin around the needle hole filled with color.

"Hey, man," he spoke softly, trying to hide the shake to his voice. "Are you with me?"

Tony's eyes cracked open, the honey brown that was so often shown in the light was reduced behind the blown pupils, his lashes were wet with befuddled tears, appearing longer and fanning out against his cheek. Clint cupped his face again, gently feeling for how warm he was, but Tony could only look at him like he was trying to fit puzzle pieces together.

"You must be so confused right now. I'm sorry, man."

Tony tried to talk, but all that came out was slurred words. "'Int? Di'nt wan' to."

"I know, man. I need to clean you up, can I touch you?" His face reddened, "I mean other than your cheek."

"'Tasha says din-di-dinn...food is r'dy."

"Fuck."

"Bu' Bru...cie an' me, wer'n't done."

Clint felt panic rise in his chest. "Tony? Where are you?"

"In the wor'sshop, Ja'vis." He smiled. "Duh."

With a weighted sigh, Clint closed his eyes. "Okay, Tony, you and Bruce finish up. I'll be right here."

Tony smiled again, he tried to lift his hand, but it fell heavily back against the other. "'Kay." He was quiet for a moment. "Do ya thin' grv'ty is ac'ually 'cuz we're not mov-mov-ven... movening?"

"What?"

"Thin's fall 'cuz in-iner-inertia. B't, we are n't r'lly...movening. No inertia. So we fall."

"Tony," Clint started, and then stopped. "What?"

"'M'cold."

"I know, Tones. Just go to sleep."

Clint laid his head down again, prepared to wait it out. He didn't know how much he'd been dosed with, and with Tony's brain as fucked as it was (not to mention that he was a genius and adding drugs couldn't be good), the archer didn't know if it would be fifteen minutes or fifteen hours before Tony came back to him. 

Tony thought he was in his workshop; he thought he was safe in the tower. Was that where he went whenever he got lost? Clint felt a little warmth at he and the team being Tony's safe space, but he needed the genius back, even if he hated to do it. Tony needed to be cleaned and cared for. He needed his rectum checked for tears, his bruises soothed. He needed to eat. 

Even if Tony wasn't all there the other nights he had to do this, he was awake enough to understand what Clint had to do. He was able to agree to being touched, if only by not shrinking away; he said 'No' when he didn't want Clint to do something, and Clint always listened. Always. 

But with his mind so addled by opium, there was no consent. And because of that, Clint refused to start. Not without an okay. There was so much in Tony's life at the estate that was out of his control, if Clint could give him just a little of it back, it would help. He was hopeful, though, since Tony had recognized him at first, even if he ended up calling him Jarvis.

It was almost a half hour later when Clint looked up and into Tony's face to see that his pupils weren't quite so large. "Hey!" He started, picking his head up slightly. "Hey, Tones." 

Tony blinked slowly. "Clint?"

Better. "Yeah, man, it's me. How do you feel?"

"I don't know," he frowned. "Everything's slow."

Clint had never been on opium. He didn't know the effects personally. Did Tony say everything was slow because that's what it did? Slow time down? Or did it just slow down the brain of one of the smartest men in the world? 

"Where are you? Do you remember?"

Brow furrowed, Tony answered, "Yeah. I'm in hell."

"Tony..." he needed a real answer, something to clue Clint on of he was ready or not to consent to the cleaning.

"The estate."

"Okay, good. Do you remember what happened this morning?"

Tony thought, his eyes growing dark. "You were mad."

Clint felt his heart drop; he hadn't meant that. He hadn't wanted to breach that subject until Tony could fully partake.

"Not at you, bro." He said, quietly. Changing the subject, he asked, "Do you...do you know what day it is?"

"It's...it's Sunday."

"Yeah. And you know who I am?"

Tony gave him a look. "You're Legolas."

Clint smiled at that, "Close enough, but you were really out if it before, bro."

"Opium? Is that what I'm feeling?" Even as he said that, Tony's eyes were closing again.

"Not the first time then," Clint said, but it wasn't directed at anyone. 

"Willis was here, wasn't he?"

Clint sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you tell me about him?" He was answered with a shrug, so he let it go. "I need to clean you up."

"Do you think JARVIS misses me?"

All right, so not completely back then. "Yeah. I mean if any AI had the capacity to miss someone, it would be the one you created."

"I wanna watch Hitch." Tony's eyes shut. "Do the Q-tip, you know?"

"Just rest. We'll talk more later."

"I'm cold."

"I know."

"Did I tell you I solved gravity?"

Clint smiled, feeling a warmth pool in his chest. "You did, man. Close your eyes."

"Mmm," was the reply he received. And Tony fell asleep, his face going lax. Clint brushed some of the hair from Tony's face, again checking how warm he was, and let his hand drop.

Leaning his back against the couch, he crossed his arms, his eyes darting around their prison. Behind him, Tony's breaths came steady, in and out, in and out. Clint counted them, timed them, keeping an eye on Tony even if he couldn't physically see him. 

And here he thought that things couldn't possibly get any worse. Rookie mistake. 

It was only about twenty minutes later when Tony stirred behind him. Clint turned, catching his eyes. "Figure out gravity again?"

"Did he take blood?"

"Yeah," Clint answered, pushing up to his knees. "Two vials."

"Contracting AIDS wouldn't be fun, so I guess I'll be thankful for what I can." Tony closed his eyes again, but it wasn't to sleep. "I tried so hard to get lost. I know that sounds awful. But I couldn't. I was there the whole time."

"Oh, Tony..."

"It's fine. I can't always go back to the tower."

Licking his lips, the archer asked softly, "Is that what happens?"

"Yeah, I find a memory usually. I live in it. Again. Sometimes it plays out differently, like a daydream I think." He shrugged. "Bruce is better at this mind stuff."

"You mean there's something you're not good at?" Clint tried for a laugh. It didn't work. 

"I don't like when I have to be there. You know, physically as well as mentally. It's bad enough knowing afterwards what they did. But actually having to take part?" Tony looked away, his eyes growing dark, "Most times, at least lately, I can leave for it. Come back when Sam--and now you--are cleaning me."

"Can I? I mean, clean you? Can I clean you?" Clint stumbled on his words, feeling awkward.

Tony nodded. "You of all people don't have to ask for permission. Not anymore anyway."

"I'm still going to. It's your body, Tony. It should be your decision."

Tony chuckled at that. "Is it though? I don't know anymore."

Clint stood, picking up the basin. "This went cold, so I'm just going to get some fresh water. And yes, Tony. It's still your body. Regardless of what that fuckhead thinks."

Tony didn't seem to have an answer for that. So Clint walked to the bathroom, careful not to slosh water on Marietta's freshly mopped floors. He emptied the bin into the tub, wishing he could drain Davin and his team of monsters just as quickly as the water. When he was done, he re-entered the room and set the basin back where it was before Willis had moved it. 

"Tell me about Sam," Clint said as he dipped a washcloth into the bin and wrung it out. The hot water ran through his fingers, the sound of his hitting the bin cutting through the silence.

Tony smiled softly. "He was a good guy. From Maine. His father was a crab fisher, and he was doing the same. Spoke about the harsh winters a lot, how cold it was. But he loved it. Had never left his little town until Davin took him."

Frowning, Clint asked, "How old was he?"

"In his sixties, I think. Irish. Big guy. Davin was there for business and took him because of how strong he was." Looking back at Clint, he quirked up one side of his mouth in a small shrug of admission. "The plan to get me was in motion. He needed a Caretaker. Needed someone strong enough to lift me. Initially, he wanted nothing to do with the rest of you," his hand weakly lifted to gesture, signaling the rest of the Avengers. "I think he wanted me as isolated as possible." 

Clint hummed his response as he cleaned the surviving paint from Tony's chest, carefully edging around the arc reactor. 

"Sam was really kind though. Good company. Always had a good fishing story to tell."

"Was he married?"

Tony swallowed. "Yeah. Thirty-seven years. Three kids. Seven grandkids. Wanted to retire when he was seventy. His wife, Alice, she has no idea what happened to him."

Gently, Clint helped Tony move to his side. He dipped the washcloth back into the basin and squeezed the water out. "When we get home, we'll find her. Arms up." Tony did as instructed, the chains clanking. 

"Dead addicted to nicotine though. Drove him crazy. Said he'd never take it out on me. Just wished for  _ one more goddamn cigarette _ . You know he was a sergeant? In the army. 101st. Pretty cool, right? But he left when he met Alice." Tony dropped his arms when Clint finished washing under them. "And yet, I was his favorite Avenger." Clint snorted, leaning up to wash his back. 

"And why's that?"

"Said he always valued intelligence." Tony said, rolling slightly onto his stomach to give Clint better access. "And my suit was bitchin'."

"Oh, did he now?" Clint smirked, moving to Tony's legs. "And what about that dashing archer?"

"Doesn't even know who you are," Tony dead-panned, but a small grin played on his face. 

"Asshole."

Tony laughed, and the sound was like water on a dry day, Clint wanted to drink it up. He wanted to guzzle down the sound he had taken for granted for too long. "He liked us all. Watched the whole New York fiasco live on TV. It was my whole wormhole thing that cemented it. Said he knew men in the army that did similar, you know? Taking the hit so the others could live. Knew I was a good man from that alone. I tried to tell him the truth about me, you know?"

"No," Clint stopped what he was doing to look Tony in the eye. "No, I don't. Tony, you are a good man. He picked the best of us all to be his favorite." Maybe Clint was laying it on a little thick, but he did believe that. He did honestly believe that Tony was probably the best of all of them. He didn't need to fight for good when he returned from Afghanistan. He could have left the Mark 1 behind in the desert, never built another suit. He could have went back to making and selling weapons. Instead, he turned his whole company around, became a tech mogul hell bent on bettering the world. He didn't have to fly that nuke into the stars, saving them all but still facing an almost certain death himself. He didn't.  _ But he did _ .

"Meh," Tony grunted, flipping his hand, doing what he always did when someone gave him a real compliment that didn't involve his phones or his suit or anything that served someone else in a superficial way. 

"Don't you 'meh' me, young man."

"Okay,  _ mother. _ " 

Clint was happy to see his mode of distraction was working. There were still serious things to talk about; he still had yet to apologize for his careless actions that morning. But Tony was moving this way and that with Clint's help, and as the archer began to clean his anus, he just kept right on talking, the topic keeping him from having to pay sole attention to someone else touching him where only he himself should. 

"When we get home," he said, and Clint was happy to hear even a modicum of hope in his voice, "I want to create better instruments and radars for fisherman. For Sam. It's so dangerous, what they do. I want to make it safer."

"You will, Tony. I know, man, I know if anyone can do it, it'll be you."

"He was so kind, Katniss." And Clint took attention to his tone. It was soft and weary. Tired and spent. "Davin said he looked at me like he wanted me, that he touched me too much. But he didn't. He looked at me sadly, like he wanted to free me but couldn't. And even though it was my fault he was trapped here, because without Davin wanting me, he never would have been taken," Tony answered before Clint could protest the placing of blame, "he still did his job as caretaker. He did everything he could to help me."

"We'll find a way to honor him."

"He deserves it."

Done with cleaning him for the moment, Clint moved to stand. "How are your legs right now? Think you can make it to the bed?"

"I'll need help, but they seem okay. They just kinda run a train on me on Sundays, so I don't have to move much."

The casualty that Tony spoke with had Clint wincing. "All right. Need a hand up?"

Nodding, Tony held out his hands, and Clint pulled him first into a sitting position, then onto his feet. "Need to hold on?" Tony shook his head and gingerly turned, his steps measured and cautious, but his. Just in case, Clint walked close behind, hands out if Tony needed him. Always, as he was lately, ready to catch Tony if he fell. 

He needed a little help laying on the bed, but Clint said nothing, knowing that mentioning the weakness wouldn't help. He just gently guided his body over the folded towel, taking the brunt of Tony's weight.

Tony laid his head on his arm. "There's probably more tonight. Than usual."

"I got it, man, no sweat." Clint had already grabbed another washcloth and wet it from the faucet as Tony made himself comfortable. "Bin waters dirty now," he explained, wiping Tony up again. 

"Don't think I haven't noticed the new bruise."

"Later, Tones." Clint grimaced. 

"I was upset at first, you know. I mean I was upset already. Perfect storm and all that."

Clint sighed, "Man, please, we don't have to do this now." He uncapped the bruise cream. "Why don't you tell me more about Sam?"

"Dude, I want to." Tony said, looking over his shoulder at him. "I'm not afraid of you."

All movement stopped at those words. "Tony."

"No. I mean, I was. I'm just being honest. But I'm not."

"Uhm," Clint raised his eyebrows. "Are you still high?"

Tony ignored the remark. "What happened? Juan hit you, didn't he?" He answered his own question, his face crumbling into indignation.

"Tony, I-" Clint didn't know what to say. He scooped up some of the balm instead and concentrated on the new marks on Tony's hips. There were too many to count. "How many today?" he asked quietly.

"Eight. Don't avoid the topic."

"Fucking hell, Tones."

Tony looked angry for a moment. "Clint. Don't."

Clint wanted to bang his head against the wall. "Tony." He groaned. "Ugh. I'm sorry. I'm not good at this whole thing."

"Just listen, Clint." Tony was using the same voice he had used on the first day, when he warned Clint about not doing anything stupid. "This whole--" he wiggled his fingers, indicating the situation "--thing is fucked up. You're not perfect. And I'm okay with that."

"I hurt you."

"You were angry."

"That's just it, Tones!" He bite out, grief and guilt infusing in his voice, "anger, sure, it's fine. But I hurt you. I took it out on you, and that's not okay, Tony. That's not fucking okay." Clint stood. He needed to get away for just a moment, just long enough to get himself back in control. So under the guise of wetting a new washcloth, he left for the bathroom. When he returned, he was calmer, albeit only by a little.

"I don't want to do this now, man. You just had something fucking awful happen to you. Again. And you should be recovering from that.  _ Instead _ ."

Tony took a deep breath, his chest rising, the blue light sitting there a constant reminder of his mortality. "Clint, I-" he paused. "I go through this every week." He sat up, leaning on his side to take the pressure off of where he hurt the most. "I go through this every single fucking week. And for once, I have a distraction." Clint paled a bit. This wasn't the type of distraction he wanted for Tony. "And you're hurting. I can feel your damn guilt, dude. It smells."

"Tones, fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't think...none of it--none of any of this!--is in any way your fault. You know that, right?"

Tony looked away, pursing his lips. He was gathering his thoughts. When his eyes moved back to Clint, he said, "I know your temper. I know it because I'm familiar with my own. We're more alike then I think we ever gave each other enough credit for."

"Maybe," Clint replied. "But it still doesn't excuse what I did."

Tony let himself be vulnerable, "Maybe it doesn't. But I trust you. I need you, Barton. If you weren't here...if you weren't here, I don't think I'd last much longer. Even with Sam, I was slipping more and more. Those rocks outside were looking mighty tempting." Clint's chest tightened at the implication. "You're able to pull me back. More than Sam ever was. I liked him. He was a good guy. But I  _ know _ you. That's what the difference is. I can hold on because  _ you're _ here." Laying back down, he briefly pressed his face into the mattress, a small moment to hide himself and his emotions, before looking back up, his face so open and broken that Clint felt his lungs tighten.

"I bet you say that to all the Avengers," Clint attempted to joke.

"Doesn't make it less true."

Unable to respond right away, Clint put the bruise cream on the nightstand and reached for the Vaseline. He popped off the cap and dipped his finger in, taking out the right amount without looking. "It won't ever happen again. I fucking promise you, man. Never again."

"It will. And it's okay." He hurriedly added when Clint gave him a sour look. "There's going to be times when I lose my shit. Either by breaking down, giving up, or getting angry. I know that. And I had to accept it. I don't know, maybe  _ because _ I'm a genius, I can see things clearer. I know everything is different with me. My head is fucked up, Clint. It's fucking Chernobyl in there. There's nothing normal about any of this, so how can we expect to act normal?" As he spoke, Clint gently pushed inside him with the Vaseline, rubbing the inner walls. He knew, from his short experience, that Tony still had more come in him, that he'd be wiping him up again, having to reapply the petroleum jelly several more times. He'd do it a thousand just to keep Tony from hurting. They were quiet for a few minutes as Clint finished the application, Tony unable to talk as he was essentially being violated. Again. Even if it was for protection and care from a friend. 

When Clint returned from washing his hands, the genius spoke again. "What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that we're two people that never really spoke about our feelings. You know, those icky things Steve is always going on and on about." Clint graced him with a half smile.  _ True.  _ "We're bound to explode once in a while. I think we've earned that much."

"I know you're right, man, but the way you...You were petrified."

"I was. I'm not going to lie. I was. But you would never knowingly and purposely hurt me. And I know that. And you know what? I was still scared, before they drugged me, I mean, I'm kinda all sorts of mentally fucked, on Sundays especially." Clint was pulling the blankets up, draping them over their bodies and automatically tugging Tony close to him. Like two fucking toddlers, it was naptime. The day has been full enough, and he knew Marietta would wake them for dinner. Concussion or no, he needed a fucking nap. "But I don't know, seeing you there when I was coming out of it, the fear just disappeared. Because I trust you. Don't you get that? I fucking trust you." Tony's eyes were slipping closed, his voice getting slower and quieter, the remaining drugs still working his way out of his system and the physical stress exhausting him. 

"I know, Tones. I just sometimes wonder if you should." But Tony had already fallen asleep, and Clint's words echoed around the room, just like the sounds of the ocean. Back and forth, steady, haunting, and never ending. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming soon! Please let me know in the comments section below what you think!


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